


Choices

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clintasha - Freeform, Codependency, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Kidnapping, Mind Games, POV Clint Barton, Physical Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punishment, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24147523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: “Okay,” Imaginary-Kate says. “Let’s start with what we know.”Clint ticks them off on his fingers. “I was kidnapped,” he says, “because some scientist injected me with a virus. The virus is no longer in me, but I’m still kidnapped because of a crazy woman who knows anunnervingamount of things about me. I have an unbreakable GPS-slash-shock-collar around my ankle, which will probably kill me if I go too far outside its limits. It’s been two weeks and no one has come yet, which means they don’t know where I am and probably don’t have any leads. That about cover it?"
Relationships: Clint Barton & Kate Bishop, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 118
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted to me by thoughtfulmilkshakeface on tumblr, who wanted a story where Clint was seduced and kidnapped by Natasha, and it turns into an "unusual, yet genuinely blossoming and possessive relationship."
> 
> I'll be the first to say this is not my ship (winterhawk bitch for life), but it was fun to write, and I really hope I did it justice. As always, feel free to leave comments/reviews, and if I haven't tagged properly, please let me know. 
> 
> Loosely based on Matt Fraction's Hawkeye.

**day zero**

The club is crowded tonight, but Clint is still able to find a seat at the bar. He signs his usual order at his favorite bartender, and she hands the drink to him with a smile. _Good to see you,_ she signs. _Missed you yesterday._

 _Meetings,_ he signs back. _Thank you._

He sips his drink and leans against the bar. He’s alone tonight—Thor had declined to come with, Stark was doing science things, and Cap was too busy with SHIELD wrap-up stuff from their last mission. Which is fine by him, honestly. He’s been feeling smothered the last few days. It’s nice to get out by himself.

His hearing aids are at home, so he can’t hear the music, but he can feel the pulsing beat in his chest. He lets his eyes rove over the crowd. Not searching, just cataloging. Seeing what’s going on.

That’s how he notices her.

She’s leaning on the spiral staircase, nursing a drink and doing the same thing he is. Their eyes meet, and she smirks, the curve of her lips easy to see in the flashing lights. He nods slightly, then goes back to surveying the crowd.

She’s still looking at him when he gets around to her again. This time, she tilts her head at the dance floor. Offering the age old question.

He shrugs. Gets off his chair. Walks over. They meet in the middle of the crowd. No words are exchanged—not that he’d be able to hear them anyway—but she slides her body against his, and he moves around her, and they fall into an easy rhythm.

Weeks from now, he’ll try to figure out when it happened. He’ll think about that first interaction over and over, wonder when exactly the look in her eyes went from innocent to calculating, wonder how she she managed to slide under his defenses and into his life without him ever noticing.

But that will all come later.

Right now, he is dancing, and drinking, and a little distracted by how beautiful she is—all red hair and flowing limbs and graceful movements. Clint feels like a slob next to her, even though he knows that’s not the case. He puts his free hand on her hip. Draws her closer. Their mouths meet, hesitantly at first, then quickly turning from chaste to heated. She tastes like whiskey. He likes it.

When they pull apart, he stumbles.

Not a lot. It could be attributed to many things. Alcohol. The press of the crowd. The fact that he was just kissing a beautiful girl.

But he knows himself. He’s not drunk. He like kissing her, but he’s not so lost in it that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And the crowd is there, but not touching. They’re in a little bubble, just the two of them.

Clint stumbles again, instincts flaring to life. The woman is watching him, green eyes cold, and a smile curving her red lips.

Lips.

Kissing.

“Fuck,” he says, but it’s too late to do anything about it. Lipstick compounds work fast.

She works fast too. She quickly wraps an arm around his waist, maneuvering him towards the door to the club. Clint wants to call for help, or alert somebody, or do _anything_ , but his body doesn’t cooperate. She pulls him along easily, dropping their drinks on a table along the way. The doorman says something to her, but she just smiles indulgently and shakes her head. Clint can imagine the conversation. _Too much to drink. I’m taking him home._

Nothing suspicious, of course. He’s the guy. Guys don’t get roofied.

He stumbles along with her, and she guides him around the corner. There’s a car waiting there. The door opens as they get close, and she eases him into the backseat. She even slides a seatbelt over him. Then she taps the glass partition, and the car drives away.

Clint remains slumped against the window, barely able to turn his head. He watches the city roll by in a flash of lights until they all start to blur and fade together.

 _Should’ve brought my hearing aids,_ he thinks, and then he’s unconscious.

**day one**

Clint wakes up naked, tied to a chair, and with one hell of a headache. It takes him a few minutes to fully blink himself back to alertness. He’s in a small room, lit by a single bulb, with a table in front of him and a large mirror on the wall. The broken clock above it says 9:15. The walls are a dull cinderblock, the floor a smooth, grey concrete. The whole place looks like a police interrogation room, basically, and he shakes his head at the cliche-ness of it all.

He doesn’t bother calling out. They’re watching, and he’s not going to waste his energy. He does test the restraints, but they’re pretty solid, and he gives up after a moment. Without his hearing aids, the team won’t be able to track him. But Tony has JARVIS, and they knew he was going out last night. Hopefully JARVIS will be able to follow the trail to wherever the hell he is now.

The door opens. Clint glances up as the woman from last night comes in. She looks pretty much the same as she did under the club lights—red hair with a hint of curls, pale skin, lips still curved in a smirk. Still beautiful, although now he’s wary of it. If she tries to kiss him again, he’s head butting her.

“What’s the plan?” he asks. “Gonna eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti?”

She ignores that and says something. He doesn’t hear it, of course, but he’s pretty decent at reading lips. _How — you feeling?_

“My head hurts,” he says. “And some asshole tied me to this chair.”

She smiles. _Sorry about that. We had to — precautions. You under—._

He’s not sure how much they know about him. For official Avengers purposes, he’s Hawkeye, and he wears a mask while they’re on missions or doing press stuff, just like the rest do. He doesn’t necessarily guard his identity with a fervor, but he does try to keep Clint Barton separate from Hawkeye. It’s just easier that way.

But they must know _something_ , because otherwise he wouldn’t be tied to this chair. So he just nods and says, “Sure. Very understandable.”

He pours as much sarcasm into his voice as he can. It’s hard without hearing himself, but he thinks the gist of it gets across, because the woman laughs. _We just — to ask you a — questions, — a short —. That’s all. It won’t — long._

We. Interesting, considering it’s just her in here. But she’s the familiar face, so he gets it. The others are probably watching behind the mirror. “Ask away,” he says. “I’m an open book. Love sharing all my secrets.”

The woman laughs again. _Cooperative. I — that._ She walks around the table and perches on it, reaching out to trail her fingers over his cheeks. _Let’s keep it — way._

She pulls away, leaving the ghost of her fingertips on his skin, and turns her face to the mirror. There’s a pause, like she’s listening to something, and then she looks back at him expectantly.

Clint sighs. He doesn’t really like to advertise the fact that he’s deaf. He’s not ashamed of it, but he doesn’t want it to define him—or worse, be seen as a liability for the team. Kate knows, but that’s because she’s one of the few people who actually cares about him. The only other person who knows is Tony. He’d helped design nearly invisible hearing aids, complete with comms, and GPS capability, and batteries that lasted forever. Or almost forever—hence why he wasn’t wearing them when he went out last night. They’re still disassembled on the counter in his apartment.

The woman raises an eyebrow. Clint groans. He’s going to have to give up the ghost on this one. He can fumble his way through reading her lips, but if they’re asking him questions over a speaker, he’s not going to be able to answer.

“I can’t hear you,” he says, looking over at the mirror.

She looks too, then back at him. There’s a little wrinkle between her eyebrows, a slight hint of confusion playing over her face.

“I’m deaf,” Clint clarifies.

More confusion. _You — me before._

“I’m trying to read your lips.” He laughs a little. “Did you think I was just staring at your mouth because you’re pretty?”

A smile breaks across her face, like he startled her into it. It’s genuine this time. He likes the way it lights her expression up, even if only for a second. _Fair —,_ she says. _I’m sorry. We — know._

She turns back to the mirror, waiting with expectant posture.

“I know sign language,” Clint says, tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair. “Alternatively, you could just write a list of questions. Or we could play charades, that could be fun. Interpretive dance, maybe, if you’re into that.”

The woman leaves the room, then comes back a few minutes later with an oversize tablet. She holds it up to him so he can see the blinking cursor.

She sets it up on the table and gives him a questioning look. _That work?_

“That’ll do.” He shrugs.

The cursor starts moving. _We’ll start with something easy. Do you prefer Clint or Hawkeye?_

Well, that answers _that_ question. They definitely know who he is. “I take it this is a work thing,” he says, flexing in the restraints. “So we can stick to Hawkeye, I guess.”

_One week ago, you went on a mission to a facility in Ohio._

“That’s not a question. Or a secret, really.” It couldn’t have been. They’d blown up an entire factory while retrieving some data for SHIELD. Unavoidable, in Clint’s opinion. Cap had strongly disagreed.

_You took something of ours, Hawkeye. We would like it back._

“The data? We gave that back to SHIELD. It’s long gone.”

_Not just the data. You took something else._

Clint racks his memory. “No, I’m pretty sure it was just the data.”

_While raiding the facility, you entered a laboratory. One of the scientists there injected you with something._

“Oh, that green stuff? Yeah, that was rude as hell.” He vividly remembers it. One of the scientists had jumped on him, like a monkey, and jammed something into his neck. Steve had pushed the guy off, but not before the syringe was empty. “But SHIELD checked me out, and they said I was good.”

_SHIELD was wrong._

Clint feels a little chill at those words. “How so?”

 _The syringe contained an encapsulated virus. It has a dormant period of twenty days. It is undetectable until the capsule dissolves and the virus enters the bloodstream. Unfortunately, the remainder of our samples were destroyed in the attack. Which means that the only living form of the virus is inside you, Hawkeye._ There’s a pause, and then, _We would like it back._

“You realize none of that was a question, right?” Clint says. “Also, how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

_It will be a slow and painful process for you. You will have to remain our guest for the foreseeable future._

“Ah.” Clint tugs at the restraints again. “Look, not that that doesn’t sound like _buckets_ of fun, but I’d really rather not, you know? I’ve got a pizza-loving dog I need to take care of, and my friends will be looking for me, and it’s all gonna end up being very messy. So why don’t you just let me go, I’ll talk with my people about getting your virus out, and we can make—“

_That will be all for now. We suggest you prepare yourself. This will not be pleasant._

Clint’s a pretty unflappable guy, all things considered. He’s seen some weird shit with the Avengers. He and Kate have gotten into some weird shit on their own time. But this pretty much takes the cake for weird, and he’s getting a little bit worried about it, honestly. _Guys, now would be a great time for you to come busting down the door, please and thank you._

The door does not bust down. The woman listens to something, then nods and gets up from the table. She puts a hand on his shoulder, skin warm against his, and mouths, _Courage._

The way she says it—with a furtive flicker of her eyes to the mirror—makes him wonder if she wants to be here any more than he does. Maybe she’s just a pawn in the game too.

“Wait,” he says as she walks away. She turns, perfect eyebrow raised. “Can I get some water or something? I wasn’t kidding about the headache.”

She nods, and the door slams shut behind her. Clint can feel the reverberation through his bare feet. He doesn’t really _need_ water, but Surviving Kidnapping 101 says you should always try and make yourself more human to your captors. Little things like asking for stuff, or trading names. They took his clothes, which means they’re trying to strip him down into a commodity. He needs to get ahead of the game.

The woman comes back with a glass of water. She holds it carefully to his mouth, offering him steady sips. “Thank you,” he says, once the glass is empty.

She smiles, keeping her eyes on him.

“What’s your name?”

Still smiling. Still watching.

“I mean, you know mine, so it only seems fair.”

No answer.

“I suppose—“ He cuts himself off, darting his tongue over his lips. They’re tingling slightly, and his vision seems like it’s warping. Not a lot, but enough to be concerned. “…did you drug that?”

A slight shrug.

“Goddamnit,” Clint mutters. “I guess I should’ve seen that coming.”

 _Probably,_ the woman says.

“This isn’t going to help the headache problem, you know.”

 _I think that will be the least of your concerns,_ the tablet reads.

“Yeah,” he slurs, feeling the pull of unconsciousness already. “You’re probably right.”

**day ???**

He wakes up in a bed this time. Definitely comfortable than the chair, but also somewhat more alarming, because now there’s an unholy number of straps holding him down. There’s even one around his _head_ , which frankly he finds very unnecessary. He tugs at them a little.

“Sorry,” a soft voice says, and he flicks his eyes over to see the woman sitting by his bedside. “I know it’s uncomfortable. We didn’t want you to hurt yourself when the process starts.”

“I can hear you,” he says, a little surprised at this. “Why can I hear you?”

“We found some hearing aids to use, short term.”

Huh. “Well, thanks, I guess. That was…nice.”

She smiles. “We aim to please.”

“Glad to hear it.” Clint takes a deep breath. “It would really please me if you let me out of here.”

“Can’t do that,” she says.

“You could, actually. Just one of my hands. I’ll do the rest.” He tries for his most charming smile. “I’ll bust out of here in spectacular fashion, and you can go back to kissing random guys in clubs. Sound good?”

“Sorry,” she says, smirking at him. “We have to get that virus out of you. You don’t want to see the consequences of not doing that.”

“What happens if the capsule degrades?”

“It’s gross,” she says. “Your organs liquefy and literally ooze out of you. I’ve seen it. It’s nasty.”

He scowls. “Great. Just _great_.”

“It won’t take long,” she says. “Maybe a couple of days at most. Then we’ll dose you up with something and put you back in your apartment. You won’t remember very much of this.”

“How comforting,” Clint says, looking back up at the ceiling. “It’s like the vacation I’ve never dreamed of.”

She snorts. “That’ll teach you to go breaking into secret bases, then, won’t it?”

“Wouldn’t have had to if your people didn’t steal our shit.”

“It was our data in the first place. SHIELD stole it from us.”

“Okay, but considering that you guys are making _organ-melting viruses_ , I’m still pretty sure that you’re the bad guys in this scenario.”

“That’s fair,” she admits. “But in any case, you’re not getting out of here. Not now. I suggest you make yourself comfortable.”

He scowls again, but she’s right. He’s not getting out of these without help. His circus days made him pretty adept at slipping restraints, but these are high-quality, and even his best attempts are met with unyielding canvas. “Dammit,” he mutters, pulling at his wrists. He’s not panicking, but he’s never liked being tied down to things, and this whole situation is setting off alarms in his head. They might want him for the virus, but he doubts that they’ll just drug and drop him afterwards. It’s more likely that he’s going to end up dead.

The woman puts a hand on his arm. It’s cool against his heated skin. He flicks his eyes over to her. “Easy,” she soothes. “I know you don’t trust us—“

“Damn right I don’t,” he says.

“But I promise this will all be over soon.”

The door opens, and a man in scrubs and a face mask wheels in a nasty looking machine. Clint can’t really see most of it, but his heart rate spikes up anyway. “Look,” he says, and he hates how the nervousness has crept into his voice. “Let’s be reasonable about this.”

“Shhh.” The woman puts a hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb over his chapped lips. “It’ll be okay, Clint.”

The scrubs guy starts attaching things to Clint. Electrodes. The leads tickle as they trail over his skin. Clint tenses as the guy’s hands get way too close for comfort, but he just applies the electrodes with clinical touches. Then he slips a stupidly large needle into the crook of Clint’s left arm, and attaches it back to the machine. He does the same on the opposite side.

The woman murmurs soothing things while he works, but Clint is barely listening. He’s focused on the machine. It looks like a dialysis machine, but way scarier, and his heart rate starts to jack up as the guy gets it ready. “Look,” he starts again. “Can we talk about this?”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, and she does sound sorry. “I’ll be here the whole time, I promise.”

“That’s less than comforting,” Clint tells her. “Considering I don’t even know your name.” He tries for flippant, but it comes out panicked, and he can’t quite get his voice under control. “Seriously, lady, this is—“

“We’re ready,” Scrubs says.

“Courage,” the woman says to Clint, and she presses a kiss to his cheek. He flinches at her touch. She smiles softly at him and nods at Scrubs. “Go ahead.”

The machine hums to life. There’s a sucking sensation in his arms, and he stares as his own blood starts to pull through the tubes to the machines. It doesn’t hurt, actually, and he thinks for a second that maybe this won’t be so bad.

Ten minutes later, it is.

**day ???**

It _hurts_. Everything hurts. He’s been shot, stabbed, _tortured_ , and none of it can hold a candle to this. He thinks he might actually be dying. He fights for air between screams, even though breathing feels like it burns his lungs. “Stop,” he gasps out once, wild eyes flickering to the red-haired woman. “ _Please_.”

“We can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

The fire surges again. Clint howls his misery to the unforgiving ceiling.

**day ???**

There’s something cool on his face. Something wet prodding at his lips. He sucks at it gratefully, desperate for anything to quench the flames burning him.

“Careful,” murmurs a voice. “Not too fast.”

He coughs hard. “Kate,” he moans. “Make it stop.”

“Not too much longer,” the voice says. “Hold on.”

**day ???**

The voices are muffled, like he’s hearing them through a tunnel. _Left the TV on again,_ he thinks hazily. _Kate hates that._

“How much is left?”

“We’re getting there. We’re at seventy-eight percent clearance. It was a sizable injection.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Vitals are stable. Temperature is still at 105.”

 _Must be a medical show._ He’s hot. Why is he so hot? He shifts uncomfortably, letting out a moan.

“Is he awake?”

“Sedation doesn’t work with the extraction process. It’ll compromise the virus.”

“Hmm.” Something brushes over his face. “Keep me updated.”

“Yes, sir.”

**day ???**

He’s shivering now. This is new. Is it possible to be both on fire and frozen at the same time?

“His temperature is still high.”

“I know. We’re trying to cool him down.”

“Are you sure he’s going to survive this?”

“No.”

“Is the virus out?”

“Ninety-seven percent clearance.”

“How much longer?”

“Another couple hours.”

“Good. He approved your request, by the way.”

“I saw that.”

“We should just kill him. You know they’re going to come looking.”

_Looking for who?_

“It’s a better plan to keep him. They won’t find him.”

“What’s so special about this one?”

“I don't know.” Cool fingers brush over his forehead. “But I'm going to find out.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Like the fact that you visit your mother’s grave every year, and you always leave her tulips. You blame yourself for her death, because you think if you’d been just a little stronger, you might have been able to convince her to leave your father before he killed them both. That’s why you started doing archery, and swordplay, and taught yourself all those little tricks—so you would never be powerless again. You train constantly, because you’re the only one on your team without superpowers or a suit of iron, and you feel like you have to prove yourself worthy of their time and attention. But it’s a vicious cycle, because you don’t even think you’re worth it. And so no matter how good you are, it will never be enough. Not for you, not for anyone else.” She smiles coldly. “How am I doing so far?

**day ???**

Clint’s eyes rip open.

There’s no other phrase for it. His eyelids are stuck together, and pulling them apart takes nearly everything he’s got.

He’s laying in a bed. Not his. A massive, four-poster bed, complete with a canopy and sheer curtains drawn open. There’s a sheet covering him. He’s naked underneath that. The room is gently lit by fading sunlight.

Memory slowly comes back to him, piece by piece, and he groans again. Everything _aches_. He feels like he’s been hit by a car. Except he _has_ been hit by a car before, and honestly, that felt better than this.

He spies a glass of water on the table next to him, accompanied by a small bottle of pills. He thinks about ignoring the water—justified, considering his last experience—but his thirst overrides him. With careful movements, Clint pushes himself up to lean against the mound of pillows, then reaches out for the water bottle.

Something around his wrist clinks.

“The fuck?” he mutters, pulling the sheet away. It’s a heavy-duty metal handcuff, hooked up to a solid chain that goes from his wrist and down to under the bed. He forgets about the water for a moment and follows it down to where it vanishes underneath the bed. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

“You’re awake,” says a smooth voice, and he whips his head up to see that red-haired woman leaning against the door, dressed in a blouse and a skirt that accentuates her long legs. “I’m glad. I was worried for a little bit there.”

“You,” Clint says, and then stops because he doesn’t know what to follow it with.

“Me,” she agrees. She’s holding a bowl of something in her hands. “You’re probably hungry.”

“I’m confused,” Clint corrects. “And annoyed, mostly.” He glares at her, raising the cuffed wrist. “The hell is this about?”

She shrugs. “It’s temporary. I’m working on something else.” She raises the bowl. “You want this?”

“I want to get out of here,” Clint says.

“Sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

She shrugs. “You’ll see. Are you hungry, yes or no?”

“No,” Clint snaps, but then his stomach clenches with unfortunate timing, and he scowls. “Okay. Yes.”

“Good.” She sets the bowl on the table next to the water. “I need to take care of some things. I’ll be back to answer your questions. I’m sure you have a lot.”

Clint reaches out and grabs her arm. Smooth as anything, she twists out of his grasp and bends his wrist uncomfortably, forcing it to the point where he’s gasping in pain. “Don’t touch without permission, love,” she says softly. “Understand?”

“Sure,” Clint says, wincing. “Got it, yep, my bad, won’t do it again.”

She lets go, and he pulls his arm into his chest. She’s _quick_ , he realizes. And very controlled. She could have easily broken his wrist.

“Eat,” she says. “And drink. There’s a bathroom over there if you need it.”

“Where are you going?”

She smiles indulgently. “I have business to take care of. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon, and then you and I will have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

_Well, that sounds ominous._ Clint stares at her. She winks, then saunters back out the door. It closes behind her with a soft click.

Clint looks around the room. It’s fairly nondescript—cream walls, soft white carpet, a pair of French doors leading out to a balcony and a picturesque view of rolling green hills. _Not in New York City, then._

He tugs on the chain without much hope, then gets off the bed and follows it down to the floor. It ends in a plate that’s welded to the floor by the foot of the bed. There’s a fair amount of length for him to work with, but he doesn’t find weaknesses in any of the links or on the plate itself. There’s also nothing around for him to pick the lock with, or use as a shim, and it’s tight enough that he doesn’t think he can slip it. Whoever this chick is, she’s smart. Clint is stuck until further notice.

He sighs and goes back up to the bed. The bowl is full of some type of broth—chicken, he thinks—and it’s still warm. He gently probes into it with the spoon, then decides to go for it. Drugged or not, he needs the energy. He feels completely wrung out.

The pills are just generic painkillers, and the safety seal is still in place. He pops it open and takes three, washing them down with the broth. It’s not half-bad, honestly. He’s eaten worse.

Once he’s done, he explores the limits of the chain. It’s long enough that he can reach everything in the room, even go onto the balcony. The fading sunlight is warm on his skin as he steps into it.

The view is very nice. Gentle hills, trees, mountains in the distance. Fenced off sections of pasture, a few of them containing horses. He prefers the hustle of the city, but this is certainly easy on the eyes. Also very uninformative. He’s not great with geography, and he has no clue how long he was unconscious. She could have brought him anywhere in the country.

He stares up at the blue sky and sighs. At least the team should be on alert. They’ve got be looking for him by now. Kate definitely is, if he knows her.

“See anything you like?”

He turns at the voice. The woman is back. She’s wearing jeans now, and a soft white t-shirt that contrasts nicely against her hair. “It’s nice,” he says, gesturing out. “You own all this?”

“No,” she says. “But my current employer does.”

“Cool.” He looks out at it again. “Where are we?”

“Virginia.” She steps up next to him.

Well, that’s closer than he thought. That’ll be helpful. “Nice. Never been.”

“Yes you have,” she says. “You came on vacation, once. With Bobbi.”

Clint blinks at that, memories kicking into gear, and turns to her. “How do you know that?”

“She told me.”

“How do you know Bobbi?”

“We were friends for a short time.”

Clint stares at her, unsure of what to say to that. “I…” he starts, and shakes his head. “Lady, who the _hell_ are you?”

“My name is Natasha Romanoff,” she says. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Clint.”

Oh _great_ , he has a stalker. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Wait. This isn’t like...a _Misery_ thing, is it? Please tell me this isn’t a _Misery_ thing.”

Natasha tilts her head, and there’s that little furrow between her eyebrows again. “What?”

“You know.” Clint gestures broadly. “Stephen King. Crazy woman kidnaps man. Legs end up broken.” He shrugs. “Haven’t seen it in a while. That’s all I remember.”

She laughs. It’s bright and clear, like a bell ringing, and Clint finds himself liking it despite the situation. “I like your legs,” she says. “I’m not going to break them.”

“Good, because I put in a lot of time at the gym. I’d hate for that to be ruined.” He rattles the chain. “So if you’re not going to break my legs, what’s this about?”

“I saved your life,” she says. “After they extracted the virus, my employer was going to kill you. I requested otherwise.”

Huh. He hadn’t really believed her promise of drugging and dumping, but it’s still a little jarring to hear that they actually were planning to kill him. “Thanks, I suppose.” He rubs his hand over his arm, probing the bruise where the needle was. “Did they get it all out? The virus.”

“They did. You were very lucky. The process nearly killed you.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He drops his hand. “So I didn’t die, and they were going to kill me anyway, but you asked them not to?”

“Yes.”

He tries to read her expression, but her poker face is a thousand times better than his. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll bite. Why?”

Natasha smiles. “I have my reasons.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Alright. Good talk.” He goes back into the bedroom.

She follows him. “The Avengers have been on our radar for a long time, ever since that disaster in Canada. It’s been my job to learn everything about you. And I have learned so many _interesting_ things, Clint. You’re a fascinating group.”

Canada…that would have been last year. They’d taken out a local terrorist group with a surprising amount of funding and a lot of toys they shouldn’t have had. “I don’t remember that being a disaster.” On the contrary. It had gone rather smoothly, for once.

“It wasn’t for you. It was for my employer.”

“Who’s your employer?”

Another smile. “I think you know I’m not going to tell you that.”

“Can’t blame a guy for asking.” He taps his fingers against his thigh. “So you’ve been stalking us for a year?”

“Researching,” she corrects.

“It’s totally stalking.”

Natasha shrugs. “Either way. I know everything about you, Clint.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

She steps forward. “You grew up in an abusive home with your brother. Your parents died in a car crash when you were young, and you bounced between foster homes and orphanages. You spent some time in a circus, which is where you learned to shoot. You got on the wrong side of the law a few times, got into some trouble, and then ended up joining the Avengers at Steve Rogers’s request. Bobbi joined with you for a time, but she left after the two of you broke up.” She crosses her arms. “Any of this sounding familiar?”

“None of that is private knowledge,” he says, rolling his eyes. “My whole fucking biography is on the Avengers Wikipedia. What’d you do, give it a review before coming in here?”

“Oh, that’s just the basics.” She moves closer. “I know other things too.”

“What, like my shoe size?”

“Like the fact that you visit your mother’s grave every year, and you always leave her tulips. You blame yourself for her death, because you think if you’d been just a little stronger, you might have been able to convince her to leave your father before he killed them both. That’s why you started doing archery, and swordplay, and taught yourself all those little tricks—so you would never be powerless again. You train constantly, because you’re the only one on your team without superpowers or a suit of iron, and you feel like you have to prove yourself worthy of their time and attention. But it’s a vicious cycle, because _you_ don’t even think you’re worth it. And so no matter how good you are, it will never be enough. Not for you, not for anyone else.” She smiles coldly. “How am I doing so far?”

He wants to deny it. He wants to laugh in her face and say _you don’t know me at all_. But he can’t, because she is horribly, horrifically right. On all counts. She just split him open and read his soul like a goddamn large-print book.

“You didn’t know I was deaf,” he says faintly, because that’s the only thing he can say.

“No,” she agrees. “That one was a surprise. You don’t like to tell people that, do you? I find that _very_ interesting. You don’t want to be seen as a liability.”

Clint has no answer to that. He feels cold. He feels _naked_ , beyond the fact that he has no clothes on. These are things he never even told Bobbi. How could she _know_?

“Why am I here?” he whispers, feeling off-balance. “I don’t…”

Natasha moves into his space. Presses right up against him, slides her hands up his arms and loops them around his neck. “Because _I_ think you’re fascinating,” she murmurs, lips inches from his. “And I like to collect the things that fascinate me.”

She kisses him. Hard. Not the gentle way they’d made out in the club, but with a demanding possessiveness that scares him. He pulls back, but she chases his mouth, pressing forward until he stumbles backwards onto the bed. She lands on top of him and pins his wrists above his head. Her red hair falls around them like a curtain.

“Please stop,” he says. His head is still spinning, and he’s more than a little freaked out about what’s going on. “I don’t want this.”

Her green eyes lock onto his. “You’re mine,” she whispers to him. “They won’t ever find you. Not here. I can do what I want with you.”

“I don’t want _this_ ,” he says again.

She smirks. “You think I care what you want?”

No. He doesn’t.

“It’s in your best interests,” she murmurs, nipping at his ear, “to keep me happy.”

“Why?” he breathes, squirming underneath her grip. He could probably kick her off, but he doesn’t really want to hurt her. And it wouldn’t accomplish anything anyway, he’s cuffed to the damn bed. Where would he run to?

“Because, sweetheart,” she says. “I’m the only thing you’ve got left.”

She rolls off him and brushes her hair back into place. Clint gingerly sits up, watching her with wary eyes. She straightens her shirt and smiles. “Did you eat?”

Clint nods, a little nonplussed by the sudden turn of events. Natasha picks up the bowl and the water glass, then tilts her head at the bathroom. “You can shower,” she says. “There’s stuff in there for you.”

“Okay,” he croaks.

“I’ll leave you to think,” she says. “If you need something, just yell for me. I’ll hear you.” She starts to walk through the door.

“Wait,” he says, and she pauses. “How…how many days? Since the club.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“I just…” he shrugs. “I just want to know.”

She eyes him for a moment, and Clint thinks she’s not going to tell him. But then she relents and says, “It’s been two weeks.”

When he doesn’t say anything to that, she leaves. Clint presses a shaking hand to his lips, like he can still feel hers on them.

Two weeks. Two goddamn weeks. Kate must be going absolutely nuts.

_That’s a long time to be missing,_ a small part of him says. _Why haven’t they found you yet?_

“They will,” he says. “They _have_ to.” Unless she lets him off the cuff, that’s his only option. Although she can’t keep him here forever, can she? There’s no way he’s going to spend the rest of his life chained to the bed like this.

Right?

“Fuck my life,” he tells the room. “Just…just absolutely fuck it.”

He showers. There’s no clothes in the bathroom, so once he’s done he just wraps a towel around his waist and thoroughly explores the giant room again. He doesn’t _see_ any cameras or microphones, but he doesn’t dismiss the possibility. In terms of moveable furniture, he has a lamp, the bed, a chair, and an extremely sturdy but empty dresser. The lamp would make a good weapon. In a worst case scenario he could probably whack her over the head with it.

The thought makes him shudder. He doesn’t want to kill her. She’s just a nice, mildly crazy stalker woman who kidnapped him and chained him to the bed. He can probably get out of here without too much violence and mayhem.

Clint shakes his head and crawls back into bed, ditching his aids on the bedside table. He’s too tired for this shit. He can come up with a solid plan in the morning.

**day fifteen**

There’s something warm pressed against his back when he wakes up, and an arm draped over his chest. Clint smiles sleepily. “Hey Kate,” he says, rolling over. “You have another—“

A jolt of adrenaline blasts through him as he sees red hair, not black, draped over the pillow beside him. He moves without thinking, doing a very awkward scramble that ends up with him on the floor, tangled in the sheet.

Natasha’s face appears over the edge of the bed. She laughs. _What — that about?_

“Nightmare,” Clint says, rubbing his face. The chain clinks softly as he reaches up for his aids and slips them in.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s still ongoing, I think.” He looks around. “When did you come in?”

“Last night.” She stretches languidly. “You were out pretty hard.”

Clint untangles his legs from the sheet. “So do you _always_ cuddle with unconscious people, or am I the exception?”

“You’re definitely an exception,” she says. “I am sorry, though. I didn’t mean to scare you. You were expecting Kate, right? Your roommate?”

_Certainly would have been better than this_ , Clint thinks.

“Do you guys sleep together often?”

Clint scoffs. “We don’t _sleep_ together. She has bad dreams sometimes. It helps her to be around other people. Or the dog.”

Natasha nods. “That makes sense. I’ve read that in her file.”

“She has a file?”

“Everyone has a file.”

“I have a file?”

“I told you you have a file.”

“Do you have a file?”

“Stop asking about files.”

Clint grins in spite of himself. “I’ll file it for later.”

Natasha groans. “It’s too early for stupid puns.”

“It’s never too early for stupid puns.” He stands up and drops the sheet back on the bed. “I’m going to go shower.” He doesn’t need to, but he wants to get away from her.

“Okay.” She stretches out on the bed. She’s wearing sweatpants now, and a thin tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It rides up a little with her arms, revealing a smooth strip of skin. Clint drags his eyes away and goes into the bathroom. The door doesn’t close all the way with the chain, but he does his best.

His towel from last night is hanging up now, although he distinctly remembers dropping it on the floor. Which means she must have hung it up before she got into bed with him. Clint shudders and turns on the water.

She’s gone when he comes back out. The door to the hallway is open, but he can only venture a few feet out into it. Unfortunately, it curves around in a weird design, so all he can see is the edge of another room, and what looks like a pool table. He tries to go further, but his shoulder starts protesting, and he reluctantly goes back into the room. _I gotta get this damn chain off._

He’s tugging at the base of it when she comes back with a plate. She sighs. “Clint, that’s not coming off without the key.”

“I’m getting that,” he says, tugging anyway. “Are you planning on keeping me here forever? Because if that’s the case, I’m gonna pull a _127 Hours_ here.” Natasha gives him that confused look, and he shakes his head. “You know, this is gonna be a long captivity if you don’t get any of my movie references.”

“I don’t really watch movies,” she says.

“Oh. Well, spoiler alert—the guy cuts off his arm.”

Natasha looks disgusted. “Please don’t do that.”

“Then let me _go_.”

“I can’t do that, Clint. We need you to stay here.”

He pauses. “We?”

“Yes. We. There’s other things at work here.” She offers him the plate. “I brought you breakfast.”

It’s toast with strawberry jelly. Not his favorite, but he’s too hungry to care. He takes the plate from her with a quiet, “Thank you,” and starts eating.

“We can’t let you go,” she says again, settling on the floor next to him. “I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you.”

“Oh you know that, do you?” he says through a mouthful of toast. “You ever been kidnapped by a crazy stalker?”

She sighs. “I don’t want to make this a battle between us. For your sake, I need you to accept your place here.”

Clint snorts. “Yeah? Tough.” He finishes the toast and drops the plate in her lap. “You claim to know so much about me, then you should know exactly what my answer to that bullshit is.” He stands up and starts pacing. “I’m getting this thing off at some point, lady, and there’s going to be shit-all you can do to stop me.”

Natasha puts the plate on the floor. “You should sit down,” she says calmly, eyes on him.

“Why?”

“Because in about a minute, the sedative I put in the jelly is going to start taking effect, and I’d like to save you from a head injury.”

Clint stops mid-pace and stares at her. “Come again?”

“You heard me.” She tilts her head up. “Sit down, please.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Clint says.

“Maybe later.” She gets up and sets the plate on the bed.

He pointedly ignores _that_ response. “You know, I’m getting real sick of you drugging me all the time.”

“Unavoidable, in this case,” she says. “Seriously. You need to sit down.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps, still pacing. “How do I know you’re even telling the truth?”

Natasha raises her hands in a “whatever” gesture. “Alright. Hit your head. See if I care.”

“I’m not gonna hit my head,” Clint says. “I don’t even feel anything, who’s to say—“

The word slips away from him as his legs wobble and his vision warps. He stops, scowling with irritation, and meets her amused gaze. “I did warn you,” she says.

“I hate you,” Clint says as his legs give out. He collapses to the ground in a heap. He doesn’t hit his head, but it’s a small victory at this point.

“I know,” she says softly, and everything goes blank after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, Natasha is probably his best shot out of here. If he can lull her into complacency, then he might be able to contact the team and alert them to his location. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the only one he’s got. He’s not getting out of this room without her help. He’s smart enough to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for rape. Not violent.

**day fifteen**

Clint wakes up on the floor where he fell. He feels…well, he feels okay, actually. No headache, for once. Just tired. A little sore from laying on the floor. He turns his head slightly, checking out the surroundings. Natasha is there, seated sideways on a chair with a book in her lap. She’s chewing slightly on her pinky nail, face concentrated. Her posture is relaxed. Peaceful, almost, and he wonders if it’s really what it appears, or if it’s an act. He’s starting to get the feeling that there’s more to her than meets the eye.

“What’re you reading?”

She jumps at the sound of his voice, instantly alert. _Guess it wasn’t an act._

“Nothing you’d find interesting,” she says. “It’s a collection of poetry. A birthday gift from Bobbi, actually.”

Clint rolls onto his back. “She does like poetry,” he agrees. “Always tried to get me to read them.”

“Did you?”

“Some of it.”

“Any favorites?”

He thinks. He hadn’t cared for most of the poems—he’s not really a poetry kind of guy—but there had been a few. “I was always kinda partial to Shel Silverstein, I guess?”

Natasha makes a noise in her throat, like she’s holding back a laugh. “Doesn’t he write kid poems?”

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “He had some others, though.” He dredges into his memory, then recites—

_She had blue skin_

_And so did he_

_He kept it hid_

_And so did she_

_They searched for blue_

_Their whole life through_

_Then passed right by—_

_And never knew._

Natasha is quiet for a moment. “That’s sad,” she finally says.

“It is,” Clint agrees.

“Why do you like it?”

“I don’t know.” He pushes himself up into sitting, then stops, staring at his arm. The cuff is off his wrist. It’s curled up under the bed with the chain.

He’s free.

Clint touches the reddened skin around his wrist, then looks up at Natasha. She’s watching him very closely with an expression that he can’t read. The book has a bookmark in it now, and she sets it on the floor. “I’m going to tell you this once,” she says. “So you know not to do anything stupid.”

“I make a living out of doing stupid things,” Clint tells her, and then he bolts for the door.

He makes it about two feet into the hallway when there’s a **bzzzt** that he _feels_ more than he hears. His legs give out suddenly and he collapses to the floor with a pained cry.

“I guess I should have expected that,” he hears behind him, and then Natasha grabs his leg and yanks him back into the room. He winces at the rug burn, but she only pulls him back enough to get his ankles over the threshold. “Before you decide to take off again, do you think I could convince you to listen to me for five seconds?”

“Sure,” Clint says. “Listening.” He feels a little scrambled, like somebody scattered his brains in his head.

“This,” she says, “is a house arrest monitor.” She taps the black band around his right ankle, and Clint feels like an idiot for not noticing it before. “Well, not exactly. But it’s similar to one. It’s got a long range tracker, and its own power supply. It also has a high voltage capacitor that can provide a pretty adequate electrical shock.” She puts her hand on his leg, sliding it up slowly over his skin. “Currently, it’s set for this room only. You try to go outside the limits, and it’ll activate. What you just felt was the basic level. Every five seconds you’re outside the limit, the shock will get stronger. Eventually it’ll be enough to knock you unconscious. Possibly even send you into cardiac arrest. You won’t be able to make it far enough or fast enough before that point.”

Clint rolls over, dislodging her hand, and grabs at the cuff. It’s a solid metal thing, no clasp, no hint of weakness. It’s not too tight—he can slide a finger between it and his skin—but there’s no way to get it off without either cutting his foot off or breaking pretty much every bone in it. Neither of which sound very appealing. Or helpful.

He runs his fingers over the slight vertical bump on it. “Did you…did you _weld_ this onto me?”

“Not _me_ specifically,” she says. “But yes. You’ve been asleep for several hours. Plenty of time to secure it.”

He swallows down his feelings about that and pulls his hand away from the band. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not very long, actually,” she says. “But like I said. We have to keep you here.”

“Well, this is just _fucking_ great,” Clint snaps. He presses his head into his hands, wondering exactly what the fuck his life has come to. “So, are you planning on keeping me here forever, then? Is that what this is about?”

“Not in this room,” she says. “We’ll give you full run of the house once we feel you’ve earned it. I know you don’t like being confined too much.”

“I don’t like being LoJacked either,” he says furiously. “I don’t get it, lady. What’s the point of all this?”

Her green eyes narrow. “My name is Natasha,” she says. “I’d like you to use it.”

“And I’d like you to jump off the balcony, but I guess both of us are going to be disappointed today.” He gets to his feet, moving to the opposite side of the room from her. He wants to punch something. His fingers ache for his bow.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she really does sound sorry. “I know this is hard for you. But I thought you would prefer this to the alternative.”

Clint winces. As pissed off as he is, she’s right. Alive and captive is better than dead.

Still. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Get out,” he says quietly.

Natasha sighs. “Clint, the sooner you accept this is happening, the sooner we can start working on extending your boundaries. I understand this is difficult—“

“Do you?” he shouts. “Really? You know what this is like?”

“Yes,” she says coldly. “I do.” She pulls up her left pant leg to reveal a black band, the same as his. “You think you have a monopoly on suffering?”

Clint stares at the band. “You have one too,” he says, the anger of a moment ago fading into a dull hollowness inside him.

“That’s right,” she says. “So yes, I understand what this is like. And I’m sorry that you have to go through it. I really am. But there’s nothing either one of us can do about it, so why don’t you stop acting like an entitled brat for five seconds, and we can talk about this like adults?”

Clint glares at her. No. No fucking way. He might be trapped here, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to listen to another word she has to say. So like the entitled brat that he is, he reaches up, yanks out his borrowed hearing aids, and chucks them across the room through the open French doors. They sail over the balcony and out of sight.

“ _Fuck_ you,” he says, and he goes into the bathroom, locking the door behind himself.

He stays in there for a long time. When he finally comes back out, she’s gone. The door is closed. Her book is sitting on the bed, bookmark still in place.

Clint sits on the bed next to it and wraps the comforter around his shoulders. He thumbs through the book, but his mind doesn’t take in any of the words. His head is spinning too much to really take in any of the words.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, closing the book. He can’t hear the words, but he can feel the vibrations in his throat. “Focus, Hawkeye. You can do this. Let’s make a plan.”

He closes his eyes and pretends Kate is there, sitting across from him. She’s always good to talk to.

“Okay,” Imaginary-Kate says. “Let’s start with what we know.”

Clint ticks them off on his fingers. “I was kidnapped,” he says, “because some scientist injected me with a virus. The virus is no longer an immediate problem, but I’m still kidnapped because of a crazy woman who knows an _unnerving_ amount of things about me. I have an unbreakable GPS-slash-shock-collar around my ankle, which will probably kill me if I go too far outside its limits. It’s been two weeks and no one has come yet, which means they don’t know where I am and probably don’t have any leads. That about cover it?”

“We won’t give up on you,” Imaginary-Kate says.

“I know you won’t. I’m saying it would be stupid to rely on a rescue.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m taking a wild guess here that this all circles back to the virus. If the team is focused on finding me, then whoever’s in charge here can do their nefarious deeds without worrying about Avenger interference.”

She laughs. “Nefarious deeds?”

“Shut up. Point being, I need to get out of here and warn the others.”

“Well, duh. And how do you plan on doing that?”

He sighs and opens his eyes. “I don’t actually know.”

His options are limited. Even if he’s not chained down, he’s still confined to the bedroom. Going into the hallway will set off the ankle monitor.

Or will it? It’s possible she was lying to him. It went off the first time, but maybe she had a remote control he didn’t see. Maybe she’s relying on the fear of it to keep him in place.

Clint gets up and opens the door. The hallway is empty, no Natasha in sight. Gingerly, he steps forward. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

“She was lying,” he says to Imaginary-Kate.

“No, I don’t think she was.”

“Sure she was. Look, I’m—” **bzzzt.**

He manages not to fall over this time, but it’s close. He winces and puts a hand on the wall. “Okay. No she wasn’t.”

“Five second intervals,” Imaginary-Kate says, and Clint nods. He waits five seconds, then—

**BZZT.**

This one is definitely worse. His knees buckle, and he hits the carpet. Waits another five seconds, and—

**_BZZT._ **

“Fuck,” he mutters, and manages to crawl back over the threshold with uncooperative limbs. “Okay. Theory tested and disproved.”

He lays there for a while, letting his body recover from the shocks. They’re not the most painful thing he’s ever felt, but they’re not fun either. He doesn’t really want to test the upper limits of it. The skin around his ankle is already raw.

“Was that fun?” Imaginary-Kate asks.

“I had to know,” he grumbles at her. He kicks the door closed and rolls onto his side. “Don’t judge me. You’re here to be helpful.”

She shrugs. “Okay. So leaving the room isn’t an option.”

“Not right now.”

“Well.” She throws a hand out to the side. “You know what you have do, then, don’t you?”

Clint throws an arm over his eyes. “Fuck,” he says. But Imaginary-Kate is right. He does know. “I gotta be nice to her, don’t I?”

“Yep.”

“Fuck,” he says again. “I don’t want to.”

“It’s either that or rot in here,” she says. “Pick your poison.”

He scowls, but she’s right. He can suck it up for a few days. The sooner he starts playing her game, the sooner he has access to the rest of the house. There’s got to be a phone somewhere in here. Or a computer. Anything he can use to access the outside world. He can fake being nice until then.

Clint crawls back up onto the bed and wraps the blanket around his shoulders again. He figures she’ll come back with food or something later, and he’ll try apologizing. He regrets throwing his hearing aids—clunky and awful as they were, they were at least helpful. He _hates_ reading lips.

Clint waits, fingers drumming on the book. He waits for hours, glancing out at the sky, watching as the sun slowly makes its way around the world, eventually sinking over the horizon. Moonlight takes its place, silver and brilliant on the walls.

Natasha does not come back.

**day sixteen**

Clint wakes up alone.

He drinks water from the tap in the bathroom. Does some push-ups. Reads a few of the poems.

Natasha does not come back.

He exercises more. Takes a shower. Takes a nap. Reads.

Natasha does not come back.

He sits on the balcony and watches the sun go down. Watches the moon rise.

Natasha does not come back.

**day seventeen**

He stays in bed. He hasn’t eaten since the drugged toast, and he wasn't exactly in tip-top shape before that. His stomach is angrily reminding him of this every chance it gets. No point in burning calories, even if he can feel the energy coiling restlessly underneath his skin.

He misses his bow. He misses Kate. He misses taking Lucky to the park and throwing the frisbee and getting pizza on the way home.

He misses his own goddamn hearing aids. He’d forgotten what it was like to spend so long in utter silence. It makes him twitchy. He constantly scans the room, afraid of threats that he can’t hear.

Natasha does not come back.

**day eighteen**

He wonders if she changed her mind. If she left him here to die after all.

Maybe she decided he wasn’t worth the time.

She wouldn’t be the first.

Clint curls up into the blankets. Tears slip from his eyes, silent as the rest of his world, and he doesn’t bother trying to stop them.

He spends the whole day like that.

Natasha does not come back.

**day nineteen**

There is something warm pressed against him when he wakes up. _Kate,_ his mind says, but it’s not Kate, it couldn’t be. He turns his head and sees _her_ instead.

“Natasha,” he says.

Her eyes blink open. She’s got an arm thrown over his waist, and their legs are tangled together. He fights back how uncomfortable that makes him feel. “You came back,” he tells her, because he’s honestly a little surprised.

_Yes,_ she says.

“Why?”

_You’re mine._

He just nods. “Well. Thanks for not leaving me to die.”

Her lips quirk in a smile. _I would never._

“Kinda felt like it for a minute there.”

She shakes her head and presses a hand to his face. _I would never,_ she says again, and she kisses him.

Clint pulls backwards. He can’t help it. The first touch of her lips against his sends a jolt through him and he scrambles away from her. He doesn’t end up on the floor this time, but he puts some distance between them. “Please don’t,” he says, sitting up. “I don’t—”

She tilts her head at him. _You’re mine,_ she says, like this is some simple matter. Like he’s a toy or a pet and she can do what she wants with him.

“That’s not how it works,” he says. “I just—I don’t want you.”

Her eyes narrow. Clint has a moment to think _maybe not the best choice there buddy_ before she’s moving, sitting up and climbing out the other side of the bed. She goes straight towards the door.

“Wait,” Clint says, scrambling after her. He crawls to the end of the bed. She pauses, but she doesn’t turn around. “Natasha, wait. I’m—“ he grimaces. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

She still doesn’t turn around, but she doesn’t leave either.

“I need to eat,” he says. “I can’t think. It’s been days.”

Still nothing.

He grimaces again. He’s not winning this fight. He can’t spend another three days in here like that. He needs to be smart about this. “Look, I’ll do what you want. I just…Natasha, I gotta eat _something_.”

She turns slowly and looks him in the eyes.

“Please,” he adds, fingers clenching in the sheets. His whole body is trembling.“I swear to God, we can do whatever you want. I’m sorry.”

Something softens in her face. She steps forward, and gently brushes her hand through his hair. He closes his eyes at the contact, some part of him liking it in spite of the situation. He and Kate were always casual with affection—brushing hands, sitting on the couch, sharing beds during nightmares. He’s missed it.

She taps his cheek with one finger, and he opens his eyes. _What do — want?_

“To eat?”

A nod.

Half of him wants to say “everything” but the other half recognizes that’s not really sensible. So he says, “Maybe like…a smoothie or something?”

She nods again. _I — do that._

“Thank you,” he says.

She leaves him on the bed. Clint moves back to lean against the headboard, curling up in the sheet. He’s too tired and too shaky to be upright on his own.

It doesn’t take long for Natasha to come back with a smoothie in one hand and a small box in the other. She sits next to him on the bed, then guides a straw to his lips. He drinks obediently, trying to clear his mind about what comes next. It’s pretty clear what she wants from him. She’s patient, though, letting him take as long as he wants. Her free hand rests on his thigh and draws circles above his knee, but otherwise she doesn’t do anything.

She likes him. He picked that up pretty quickly. Whatever research she’s had to do on the Avengers, it’s pretty clear that most of it was focused on him. Which is scary to think about, honestly. Clint’s dealt with his share of Hawkeye fans, but he really tries to stay in the background. He doesn’t need or want the fan club love like Tony or Steve have to deal with.

But she’s into him. And she’s gorgeous, to be fair. If she’d asked at the club, he most definitely would have gone home with her. He likes her hair, and the way she moves, and the quiet aura of confidence she gives off. Really if it wasn’t for the whole abduction thing, he’d be very into her as well.

But then she _did_ abduct him, so he has a few issues now.

Still, she’s probably his best shot out of here. If he can lull her into complacency, then he might be able to contact the team and alert them to his location. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the only one he’s got. He’s not getting out of this room without her help. He’s smart enough to know that.

Clint sucks up the last of the smoothie. Natasha sets the glass on the nightstand and turns to him, studying his face. _Feel better?_

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

She presses the box into his hand. He takes off the lid, unsure what to expect.

Hearing aids. New ones, nicer than the clunkers he’d pitched out the window. Not as good as Stark’s, but it’s better than nothing. He slips them into his ears and turns them on, fiddling with them as best he can.

“Thanks,” he says again. He’s a little surprised, again. He wasn’t expecting to get another pair.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. It was cruel of me to leave you like that.”

Clint blinks. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“In any case,” she continues, “it won’t happen again. This is…this is new to me. I’ll do better.”

“What’s new to you?”

“This.” Natasha waves a hand around the room. “You. Having someone. I’ve never been on this side of it before.”

_Never been on this side of it?_

“I guess I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Clint says, turning her words over in his head. “But you gotta understand where I’m coming from here.”

“I do,” she says. “Clint. I promise, I get it. But I can’t change anything about this, and neither can you. The best thing we can do is accept what cards we’ve been given.”

Clint’s first instinct is to say _fuck that._ But he bites it back and says, “Okay.”

Her lips quirk up. “That’s all?”

“For now,” Clint admits. “You were right, the other day. You’re all I’ve got. Be stupid to keep biting the hand that literally feeds me.”

She studies him with interest, like that’s not what she was expecting him to say at all. Finally she says, “I thought doing stupid things was your usual M.O.”

“It is. But I’m _really_ tired of this room.”

That startles her into a laugh. A genuine one, he thinks, looking at the way it lights up her face. “I know the feeling,” she says, and she puts a hand on his leg. “If you play nice, we can extend the boundaries. Prove to us you’ve learned how to behave.”

We. Us. Always a plural. He wonders who was behind the mirror that first day, and who she’s referring to now, and if they’re the same person. Persons. She’s clearly not the one in charge here. Not with _that_ around her ankle.

“I’ll do my best,” he says, suddenly very aware of her hand on his thigh.

“See that you do,” Natasha says. Her voice is low, her eyes intent on his. He steels himself and holds still as she leans forward, pressing her lips to his jaw. He lets out a little choked noise as her hand slides over his cock, soft and warm against it.

_Knock it off,_ he tells himself, trying to hold still underneath her. _It’s just sex. Nothing to get worked up about._

She gently takes him in her hand. “Can I touch you?”

“You are touching me,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Is it okay?”

Clint scoffs. “You angling for consent, or instructions?”

Her face tightens at that, and she squeezes her hand. Not enough to be painful, but enough to make him hiss in a breath.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” she says, a cold authority settling into her voice. “I’m trying to be nice to you.”

Clint almost wishes she wouldn’t. Maybe it would be easier if she just pinned him down and had her way with him. The tenderness here is almost unbearable. “It’s fine,” he manages, clenching his fists in the sheet. “I…it’s fine.”

Natasha kisses her way down his neck, hand still slowly working. Clint’s body does what it’s supposed to do, and he grows achingly hard under her touch. He keeps his eyes on the view outside, and lets her do what she wants. He can’t completely dissociate with himself, but he just kind of…drifts. Pretends he’s somewhere else. With someone else. He loses himself in the vision, hazily aware of what’s happening to him.

“Clint,” she murmurs in his ear, and he reluctantly pulls himself back to reality. He meets her green eyes, full of concern and arousal. She’s straddling him now, slowly fucking him, and he moans at how _good_ it feels, and how much he hates himself for wanting more.

Natasha brushes her fingers over his forehead, then trails them down his face. “Stay here,” she says as she gently rolls her hips.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice more bitter than he meant it to be.

“No,” she says, pressing her lips to his skin. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

He doesn’t know what she means by that.

His orgasm is a slow steady build, followed by a few moments of lightning flashes behind closed eyes and a warmth that bleeds through his whole body. He bites off another moan and lets his hands settle on Natasha’s hips, keeping her steady as her breath hitches and she tightens around him.

They stay together like that for a long moment, both sweating and breathless. When he starts to get soft inside her, he gently pushes. “I want to shower,” he says.

Natasha quietly gets off him. He gets out of bed without looking at her and walks to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes, he strips off the condom he doesn’t remember putting on and turns the water as hot as it will go. Then he yanks out his hearing aids, steps under the spray, and buries his face in his hands.

He stands there for a long time. Until the water goes cold, and he’s shaking from that rather than other things. He quickly scrubs himself off and gets out, wrapping up in a towel. She’s gone again when he finally emerges. There’s another smoothie on the table. Strawberry-flavored, judging from the pink hue. It tastes like chalk in his mouth.

He drinks it all anyway. Then he crawls back into the bed, cocoons himself in the blankets, and tries very hard not to think about anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her voice is steady, but he’s surprised by the pain in her eyes. He thinks again about what she’d told him earlier, about where she grew up, and wonders again just what happened to her. Clint knows intimately what abuse looks like. Looking at her reminds him of his mother, and how she’d tried project an aura of control when she was just barely holding on by her fingertips.
> 
> “What did they do to you?” he whispers.
> 
> Her face hardens. “I hope you never have to find out,” she says. Her fingers rub the skin under the monitor. “Any more than you already have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still TW for rape.

**day twenty**

He graduates from smoothies to bread and soup. Not much, but enough. He tells her thank you and accepts her kisses and tries not to throw up what he’s eating. He needs the calories.

Natasha spends the day in his room. They talk. He learns that she doesn’t know how old she is, where she was born, or who her family is. She grew up in a place she only refers to as “hell,” and lived there her whole life in between being loaned out on assignments.

“Loaned out?” Clint echoes. “What, like a library book?”

“Kind of,” she says, and there’s a flash of sadness in her eyes.

“That’s not really fair,” Clint says. “You’re a person, they can’t just treat you like that.”

“They can do whatever they want with me,” she says hollowly. “They pay for the privilege.”

 _Well that makes it even worse,_ Clint wants to argue, but she leans over and kisses him instead. He makes a little noise of protest as her hand slides up his bare chest.

She breaks off him and narrows her eyes slightly. “Problem?”

Clint wants to scream. Wants to push her off him and run out the door. _I’m not a toy_ , he wants to tell her. But he just shakes his head and says, “Sensitive.”

He can almost understand it, in a way. When you think of yourself as nothing more than an object to be traded around, it’s all too easy to lump others in the same category. He wonders what exactly they did to her, how they broke her down so hard that she can’t even think of a world beyond being _owned_.

Natasha pushes him backwards onto the bed until he’s laying flat. She takes his wrists in a firm grip and puts them over his head, pressing them into the mattress with a soft, “Don’t move.”

“Sure.”

She straddles him. She’s wearing an oversized shirt today, and a pair of soft leggings, and he can’t help but squirm as she not-so-subtly grinds down into him. “Shh,” she says. “Hold still. Let me see you.”

She starts touching him. Or not touching him, rather. Her fingertips trail possessively just over his skin—close enough to feel the heat of her hand, but never actually making contact with him. At first it’s fine. He watches her hand carefully, tracking it as she brushes the hairs on his chest, moves over his arms, down his hips. She lingers over every scar—bullet wounds, knife gashes, one series of nasty burns that he got in Florida last year. Those she does touch, but he doesn’t feel it. The nerves are too damaged.

The sensation starts to build up, this rising edge of touching-not-touching. Getting both better and worse in the same moment. She continues her arcing path over his skin, smirking as his breathing increases. Occasionally her fingers make contact, and he jumps every time, which makes her laugh. Then her palm barely rubs over the top of his nipple, and he lets out an involuntary whine.

“Problem?” she asks, repeating the motion.

“It’s…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I—just touch me, please.”

He hates himself for asking that, but she _finally_ places her palm on his skin and smiles at him. “You _are_ sensitive,” she says. “I didn’t know that.”

She sounds absolutely delighted about this. Like discovering new things about him is her favorite part of this whole process.

“Sniper thing,” he says. “Gotta be aware of my surroundings. Especially when my eyes are focused somewhere else.”

“Mmmm.” Natasha gently scrapes her fingernails over his ribs. Clint shudders under her touch and closes his eyes. “You’re so _alive_ ,” she breathes, voice full of wonder. “ _Look_ at you.”

Her hand slides up his chest and onto his neck. Her fingers wrap around his throat. Not hard, but possessively, and Clint’s hand latches around her wrist before he can stop himself. “Don’t,” he says.

Her eyes narrow again. “You don’t get to make that decision,” she says.

“Natasha.” There’s a pleading edge to his voice, and he hates it.

“Stop.” She tightens her grip on his throat, pressing against his airway just enough to make breathing a little bit more difficult. “I told you already, Clint. You’re mine.”

“I get that,” he says, forcing the words out.

“Do you? Because you’re not acting like it.” She pulls her hand away, and he sucks in a deep breath. “You’re mine, which means I can do what I want to you.”

It’s such a child-like view that Clint can’t stop himself from laughing. “That’s not how the world works, Natasha,” he says. “Just because I can’t get away from you doesn’t mean you have the _right_ to do any of this.”

She slaps him.

It’s a surprise, and he doesn’t have a chance to block it. His face burns where she hit him.

“I have the right,” she hisses, “because I’m strong enough to take it. That _is_ how the world works, Clint. The strong survive, and the weak submit.”

Natasha abruptly gets off him then. She shoves the armchair and the nightstand into the corner, clearing a larger space on the floor. Clint props himself up on an elbow. “What are you doing?”

“Proving something to you,” she says. She paces around the empty space she just made, counting to herself. Then she nods and looks at him. “Okay. Here’s your chance.”

“What chance?”

“We’re going to fight,” she says. “You and me. Right here.”

He stares at her. “Uh…why?”

“Because I think that’s the best way to get though to you.” She faces him, stance loose, and holds her hands out. “You’re a physical kind of guy. Maybe this will get it through your skull.”

“I don’t understand.”

She shrugs. “We’re going to fight. If you win, I’ll leave you alone. I can’t let you go, but I’ll stop bothering you. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

 _I won’t._ “And if you win?”

“Then you admit that you’re mine,” she says, “and you submit to me.”

“Submit as in…”

“As in submit,” she says forcefully. “As in, no pushing me away. No arguing. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. No matter what it is.”

Clint considers. She’s smaller than he is. He’s a little weak from being starved, but he’s pretty sure he’s the stronger one. He doesn’t really want to hurt her, but the thought of not being _touched_ anymore is too enticing to pass up.

“Okay,” he says, getting up. “I’ll bite.”

“Promise?” she says, flashing him a smile. It’s very predatory. A little part of his brain suddenly screams at him to run.

“Not what I meant,” he says, shaking his hands out.

She laughs. “Fight’s over when you tap out. No weapons. Just you and me.”

Clint takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, and he lunges at her, hoping to catch her off guard. He generally prefers sniping over hand-to-hand, but he knows how to fight. He spars with Stark on an almost daily basis, and with Cap or Thor when he’s feeling up to hitting the floor every five minutes. He knows what moves to throw, and how to block, and how to twist out of the way. He’s good at fighting. Good enough to hold his own when they go on missions.

But Natasha is better.

She moves like a dancer, constantly darting around him, laying punches and taps and kicks like they’re nothing. She uses her size to her advantage, ducking under his arms and twisting him around until he trips over his own damn feet. Then she backs up a little, lets him get his footing back before doing it again. _Toying_ with him, he suddenly sees, looking at the little smile on her face as she steps in and lands an elbow in his ribs. It hurts, but not as much as it should. She’s pulling her punches.

The realization of that nearly takes the wind out of Clint. He’s not going to win this fight, and they both know it. He _can’t_. He badly underestimated how good she is. Even if he was at peak level, she’d still be better. She’s just letting him take his frustrations out, like he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Fuck,” he says, throwing a punch anyway.

Natasha blocks it. “Figure it out yet?” she asks lightly.

He clenches his teeth, accepting the inevitable. “Yeah.”

“Good.” She sweeps his legs out from under him. He hits the floor in an undignified heap, and then she’s on him, forcing his wrists behind his back and up to an uncomfortable angle. “You feel better now?”

“No,” he says into the carpet, wriggling a little as she applies more pressure. “Ow. Fuck. Not really.”

She leans forward, pressing herself against his back. Her lips brush his ear. “I know you don’t believe it, Clint, but I’m trying to help you.”

“This is helping?” He tries to get a knee under himself, but she kicks it back down. “ _Fuck_.”

“It is,” she says. “Because the alternatives to being mine were either being dead, or being _theirs_.”

She lets go and gets off him. Clint immediately rolls onto his side, then pushes himself up to sit against the wall. Natasha puts a hand on his ankle, hooking her fingers underneath the monitor. “You don’t want to be theirs,” she says softly. “Trust me.”

Her voice is steady, but he’s surprised by the pain in her eyes. He thinks again about what she’d told him earlier, about where she grew up, and wonders again just what happened to her. Clint knows intimately what abuse looks like. Looking at her reminds him of his mother, and how she’d tried project an aura of control when she was just barely holding on by her fingertips.

“What did they do to you?” he whispers.

Her face hardens. “I hope you never have to find out,” she says. Her fingers rub the skin under the monitor. “Any more than you already have.”

Clint swallows. Natasha’s eyes flick up to his, and the pain disappears behind that mask again. “Tell me,” she says, the authority returning to her voice. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” he says quietly.

“Good boy.” She stands up. “Get on your knees.”

He moves slowly, the stiffness from their scuffle already settling into his muscles.“Hands behind your back,” she orders, and hums in approval as he obeys. “You look so pretty like that.”

That’s a new one. He’s been called a lot of things before, but never _pretty_. “Thank you?”

Natasha laughs. “Not used to compliments?”

“Most people just call me annoying,” Clint says. “Tony once referred to me as an ‘irritation of the spirit.’”

“He’s one to talk,” she says.

Clint shrugs. “In his defense, we were in the middle of an epic prank war, and he was less than thrilled to find that I’d spray-painted all of his suits purple.”

She laughs again. “I would’ve liked to see that.”

“It was a good one.” He watches as she moves to sit on the bed. “But then he configured my bow to make a chicken noise every time I pulled the string back, and it took me three weeks to fix it.”

Natasha tilts her head. “So who won?”

“No one. It’s still ongoing. We’ve got a temporary truce right now, because Cap said he was ‘tired of our childish antics’ and Fury threatened to take away our security access. But we still do things.”

“Sounds like fun,” she says, lifting her hips a little as she slides her leggings off. She’s wearing black panties underneath them, beautiful for their simplicity. He clenches his fists behind his back, and tears his eyes away to look up at her.

“What’s this?” he asks, pretty sure he already knows the answer.

Sure enough, she crooks a finger at him. “Come here.”

Clint shuffles forward on his knees, stopping a few feet away from her. She opens her legs a little wider. “Bobbi told me you’re good with your fingers,” she says.

He nods.

“How about your mouth?”

“Never had any complaints,” he says faintly.

She reaches forward and winds her fingers in his hair. “Glad to hear it.”

Clint moves with the pressure of her hand, letting her drag him closer. “Natasha,” he starts, but her fingers tighten, and he stops.

“Shh,” she says. “No more talking. You have better things to do.”

He presses his lips together. He doesn’t _want_ to, but he doesn’t see the alternative here. He can’t run. He can’t take her out. He can’t get away.

 _Play the game,_ he reminds himself. The sooner she trusts him, the sooner he can get out of here. There’s bigger things at stake than what’s happening right now.

The thought grounds him but it doesn’t make him feel any better as he leans his head forward. He gently kisses her leg, debating the merits of doing this quickly and getting it over with versus taking his time.

Natasha makes a soft noise and moves her legs a little wider, giving him better access. _Complacency,_ he thinks, and decides to do it right. Partially for his own pride—he _is_ good at this, dammit—and partially because if he can get her relaxed enough, he might be able to convince her to extend the boundaries for his monitor sooner rather than later. If he’s going to get away from her, he needs to get out of this room.

So Clint teases. He kisses along her thighs, adding in a little nibble here and there when she reacts well to the first one. Mouths his way up to her stomach, all toned and firm under his tongue, muscles flexing as she bucks impatiently. “Come on,” she hisses.

“Impatient,” he tells her, but he obligingly moves his hands and tugs at her underwear. “Up.” She lifts. He slides them out of the way. Then he pulls her a little closer to the edge of the bed, angles her hips up, and just barely flicks his tongue over her.

“Oh god,” she says, hips jolting. “Fuck.”

“And you said _I_ was sensitive,” he murmurs, doing it one more time.

“Fuck,” she says again. Her fingers wind into his hair and she pulls, pressing herself against him. “More.”

He keeps teasing. He licks around her, following-but-not-following the pressure of her hand as she tries to push him into going harder, faster. He circles around her clit, never actually giving it with anything more than a light brush, no matter how insistently she grinds against his mouth. Clint likes the way she tastes, sweet on his tongue as he licks into her with a shallow rhythm that has her moaning at the ceiling.

Her legs wrap around his shoulders “Clint,” she gasps, and he looks up, meeting her eyes.

“You wanna come?” he murmurs, squeezing her ass.

“ _Yes_.”

He sucks her clit into his mouth, presses his tongue against it, all pressure and suction and heat, eyes on her reactions. She yells, back arching and fingers tightening, and comes apart underneath him. Clint takes her through it, not backing off even as her legs pull him in closer, and the grip on his head turns painful enough to make his eyes water.

Natasha drops back to the bed with a gasp, and he eases up, gently tracing his tongue over her sensitive skin. When her hand finally loosens, he pulls back, tugging his hands out from under her and wiping off his face. His lips are numb. He tucks his hands behind his back again and waits patiently for her to recover.

She pants at the ceiling for a long while before finally propping herself up on her elbows. “No complaints, huh?” she says, still a little breathless.

“Not so far,” he says innocently. “You gonna be the first?”

“Nope.” She laughs, putting a hand over her eyes. “God, _no_.”

“Still got it, then.” He shifts his weight. His knees are aching.

Natasha stretches like a cat, long and lithe. Then she sits up and tugs her clothes back into place. “Good boy,” she murmurs, bending down to kiss him. Clint returns it as best he can. “I need to go take care of a few things,” she says. “I’ll be back for dinner, okay?”

“Okay,” he says.

She kisses him one more time before walking out the door. Clint kneels there for a few more minutes, waiting to see if she’ll come back.

Then he goes into the bathroom and throws up.

**day twenty-one**

“Good news,” Natasha says, walking into the room.

Clint is doing a handstand, but at the sound of her voice, he kicks himself off balance and rolls up to his knees. “What?”

“Your leash has been extended,” she says. “Wanna check out the rest of the house?”

“God, _yes_ ,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “I would love to get out of this room.”

“Follow me.” She turns and disappears around the curve of the hallway.

Clint immediately follows. It’s oddly hard to step over the threshold—some part of him still expects to be shocked—but he manages to catch up to her after a moment.

They turn the corner together and Clint stops dead. There is a pool table out here, like he’d thought, but there’s also so much _more_. There’s another balcony, and a kitchenette, and a grand staircase that splits into two on the way down. “Holy shit,” he says, slowly spinning. “This is a _mansion_.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, a smile on her face. “You like it?”

“Definitely bigger than my apartment,” he says. “Probably has no leaky pipes in the bathroom either.”

As soon as he says it, there’s a tight feeling in his chest. He was supposed to fix that. He’d promised Kate he’d do it, and then he went out that night instead. He wonders if she’s done it herself, or if maybe she’s gotten Tony to come take a look at it. God, Kate. He misses her. _She’s probably worried sick about me._

“Hey,” Natasha says, putting a hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Clint says. He pulls away.

She studies his face. “Thinking about home?”

“Yeah,” he says brokenly. “I was supposed to fix something before I…left.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and draws him into a hug. He doesn’t hug her back. After a moment, she lets him go. “Wanna see the rest?”

The rest of the house is just as spectacular. The two staircases wrap around and meet at the bottom, transitioning into a large hallway that feeds into another open space. “This is kind of the catch-all space,” she says. “Kitchen, dining room, living room. It’s a very open-concept kind of thing.”

“There are three tables,” Clint says, looking around. “Why does anyone need _three_ tables?”

“There’s four, actually.” She takes his hand and leads him over by the couches. There’s a glass door here, and another slightly smaller kitchen.

“Correction,” Clint says. “Why does anyone need four tables?”

She shrugs. “Beats me. House came with them.”

“This is ridiculous,” he says. “There’s a kitchen _right there_ , why would you need another one? Do rich people really cook that much? Is it for show? Do they hold cooking contests or something?”

“How would I know? It’s not my house. We’re just borrowing it.” She shows him the rest of the house—the pool, the patio, the bedrooms.

They end up back in the kitchen, the big one, and he sits on one of the barstools. “So what’s my new range?”

“House arrest,” she says. “You can go on the patio, and in the pool—it’s waterproof, by the way—but that’s it. I assume you’ve tested the capabilities of it already?”

He nods.

“Good. I hoped you would.” She leans on the counter across from him. “Questions?”

“Are you staying here too?”

“When I’m not on assignment, yes.”

Clint taps his fingers on the counter. “Assignment, huh?”

“Yes. Assignment. On that topic, when I’m gone, I have two things I can do with you.” She crosses her arms. “I can either lock you upstairs, or I can let you have run of the house.”

“I vote the second one,” Clint says, flashing his most charming smile.

“I’d like to do that as well,” she says. “Provided you can behave yourself. We’ll see.”

He looks around. “How much trouble can I get into?” The answer is _so much_ , but he’s not going to tell her that.

“So much,” she says. “I know you, remember?”

“Uh-huh.”

“There are cameras,” she says. “And no, I’m not telling you where. They run a live feed back to my phone and another database. The whole house is covered. And the monitor can be set off by other means as well.” She smiles. “You’re welcome to explore and see what there is to do.”

“Sure.” He’s scanning the room, looking for cameras. “No TV, I see.”

“No TV, no computer, no phones. It’s an electronic retreat.” She waves a vague hand. “There’s a bookcase upstairs. You could read. I think there’s some exercise equipment in one of the rooms upstairs if you want to work out. Kitchen’s stocked, you could try cooking something. Take a swim. Nap outside. I don’t really care what you do as long as you stay out of trouble.”

Clint stares at her. “You do realize this isn’t a vacation, right? Like, I’m not here because I want to be.”

“We’ve had that discussion, Clint.” Natasha sighs. “What do you want me to do, lock you in a dark cell with a bucket? This is better than the alternative.”

“I guess,” he says, turning to look at it all. “So what counts as getting into trouble? Just so I’m aware.”

“Trying to contact your friends,” she says. “Trying to leave. Breaking into off-limit areas.”

He perks up at that. “Off-limit areas, you say?”

“My room.” She points. “The one off the second kitchen. If I ever catch you even _looking_ at the door, you will sincerely regret it.”

“Mmm.” He taps his fingers on the counter. “Duly noted.”

“Don’t,” she says. “I know you’re tempted. But don’t. It isn’t worth the consequences.”

“Whatever.”

Natasha sighs. “Consider yourself warned.” She opens the fridge. “Want some dinner?”

“Sure.”

They make eggs and eat at one of the four tables. Afterwards, Natasha says, “I have work to do,” and settles onto the couch with a tablet in one hand and a file in the other. He tries to look, but she just nudges him away with her foot and tells him to go occupy himself.

So he explores. She’s right. There’s not a single phone or computer in the entire place, other than what she’s got. Which is probably why her room is off-limits. It’s locked, of course, but if she thinks that’s going to stop him, she’s wrong. He runs his fingers over the keypad next to it until she yells at him to leave it alone, and figures he probably guess the code.

When she’s done, she puts everything back into her room and takes him upstairs. They shower together—his skin crawling where he touches him—and then they curl up in the bed like a facsimile of lovers. Clint listens to her breathing, and stares at the stars outside.

And he plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s not to say he’s totally cool with the situation. It’s still fucked up, what she’s doing to him. He can tell that she enjoys some of it—the power, the control. But even that he understands. When you spend so much time feeling the opposite, having power in your hands for the first time can be heady. He remembers what it was like to hold a bow for the first time. How strong he’d felt when he hit the target dead-on, and Trickshot had cheered.
> 
> Point is, he gets it. It’s fucked up, but he gets it. She’s doing her best with what she’s got.

**day twenty-two**

She’s still there in the morning. Clint doesn’t confuse her for Kate this time at least, but it’s still a jolt to see her. She offers him a sleepy smile and rubs her hand over his shoulder. _Morning._

“Morning,” he echoes, rolling over. He grabs his aids from the nightstand and slips them in. She watches him. The predatory look is back, and so is that little voice in the back of his mind, telling him to run. Clint shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “What?”

“You’re pretty,” she says.

“Thank you?” He scoots away from her slightly.

Natasha reaches out and traces a long thin scar down his arm. “What’s this from?”

“I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Clint sighs. “Knife fight in Syria. I misstepped. It was either the arm or the neck.”

She frowns. “It wasn’t a training session?”

“No. That’s what I told Bobbi.” He pulls away from her. “Is that who you got all your information from?”

“Not all of it.” Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why’d you lie?”

He presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to talk about that. Especially not with her.

Natasha scowls. “Clint.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to talk about it.”

“Natasha.”

“ _Clint_.”

He throws the sheet off and gets out of the bed, deftly twisting away from her grasp. He’s not limited to hiding in the bathroom anymore, at least, so he just walks out of the room and goes downstairs.

Natasha catches him at the bottom. “Clint,” she says again, her voice hard. “You don’t get to walk away from me.”

“I beg to differ,” he says, and walks away from her.

Her foot slips around his ankle and she trips him. He’s ready for it, though, and he manages to catch himself on the bannister before spinning to face her. “Leave me _alone_ ,” he says, hands out defensively.

“You said you’d submit,” she shoots back. “What do you call this?”

“I did!” he shouts. “I fucking let you touch me, didn’t I?”

“And you think that’s the end of it?” Natasha stalks forward, cat-like and terrifying, and he backs up. “You think that was a one-and-done deal?”

“I…” he says, suddenly off-balance by the look in her eyes. He keeps underestimating her, he realizes. Not just in her fighting, but in her personality. She’s not just some crazy stalker who’s managed to kidnap him. She’s an asset of a dangerous organization, and dangerous in her own right, and he is making a mistake by pissing her off like this. “Wait. Okay.”

She keeps coming, and he keeps backing up. She backs him right into the kitchen. “Natasha,” he says, holding his hands up. “Natasha, wait.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. I’m done waiting. We’re going to do this right fucking now.”

“Aw, _shit_ , _”_ Clint says, and then she’s on him.

There is no dance this time. No back and forth, no toying, no smirking. Natasha is like a force of nature, a maelstrom of destruction that is entirely focused on him. He can’t escape it, and after a few minutes, he stops trying. Her next hit puts him on the floor, his ears ringing. Clint guards his head and just waits for it to be over. Some part of him marvels at her control—even in her fury, every kick and punch is calculated. He’s bleeding and he’s bruised, but there are no broken bones, no permanent damage. It’s almost impressive.

She straddles him, pinning his hands to the ground under her knees, and slaps him. It’s hard enough that he bites his tongue, and the taste of blood blooms in his mouth. She slaps him again, the other cheek, and he groans in pain. “Natasha.”

“Listen to me,” she hisses, leaning forward and putting her lips to his ear. “They are watching us, Clint.”

He wheezes and turns his head to the side. “What?”

“They are watching us,” she repeats. “Every move we make. Everything we say. If they think I can’t control you, they will take you away from me. And trust me, you will _not_ like what follows.”

Clint looks up at her. “I don’t like what’s happening _now_ ,” he says thickly.

She presses her forehead to his. “I don’t like doing it,” she whispers, and he blinks in surprise. “I know what it’s like, and I’m _sorry_. But I _have_ to. Please understand that.”

He tries to absorb that little nugget of information, and slot it in with the other things he’s learned from her over the past few days. Natasha, who grew up in hell. Who considers herself something to be bought and sold and traded. Who gets a haunted look to her eyes whenever she mentions anything from her past. He wonders if once upon a time she was in his position, pinned down and at the mercy of someone more powerful. What had she said that one day? _I’ve never been on this side of it before._

“It’s just a show,” she whispers, and he pulls his attention back to her. “It’s just a show, Clint. And if you want to stay alive, I need you to play along.”

Clint lays still underneath her, trying to process this sudden change of events.

Natasha gets to her feet and looks down at him. “You done having a tantrum?” she asks coldly. Her mask is back in place, the desperate words from a moment before already a memory. “Because I’d like to have breakfast. But I can keep kicking your ass if that’s what you need.”

“No,” he says, putting a hand to his ribs. “I’m…I’m done.”

“Good.” She turns and goes to the fridge.

Clint listens to her putter around the kitchen. He feels dizzy—partially from the hit to his head, but mostly because his entire view of what’s happening here has been flipped on its axis.

_It’s just a show._

He thought she was doing this because of some misplaced obsession with him. But maybe, in her own fucked up way, Natasha is trying to save him. Whatever the “alternative” is here, she truly believes that this is the better option.

_If you’re not mine, you’re theirs._

He thinks about the way she just beat him, how calculated and controlled it was. It was a show, like she’d said. To make whoever’s watching believe he’s under her control. The sex has been like that too, he realizes. Her on top, or him on his knees. _Visible_ power plays.

Clint watches her mix something, intent on her task, and he slowly puts the puzzle pieces together. “Huh,” he says out loud, and sees her eyes flick over to him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, watching the concern play across her face. “Just putting together some things.”

_Like maybe this isn’t all on you after all._

She holds his gaze for a long moment. “Good,” she finally says. “Glad to hear it.”

He’d originally had a general plan of getting his hands on a phone, contacting his team, and getting the fuck out of here. And that’s still the plan, definitely. But now he’s thinking that maybe—just maybe—it might be a good idea to get her out too.

_If she even wants to come. You know how hard it is to leave this kind of thing,_

_Yeah,_ he says. _And I also know what happens if you stay in too long, too._ He remembers the way his mother had looked just before she died. It’s the same way Natasha looks now whenever her facade slips. Like she’s run down. Weary.

Clint sets his jaw. He hadn’t been able to save his mother. She’d died at the hands of his father, alone, and feeling like she was worth nothing.

This is a second chance. This is his opportunity to do better.

That’s not to say he’s totally cool with the situation. It’s still fucked up, what she’s doing to him. He can tell that she enjoys some of it—the power, the control. But even that he understands. When you spend so much time feeling the opposite, having power in your hands for the first time can be heady. He remembers what it was like to hold a bow for the first time. How strong he’d felt when he hit the target dead-on, and Trickshot had cheered.

Point is, he gets it. It’s fucked up, but he gets it. She’s doing her best with what she’s got.

Clint wonders what she would like look outside of their control. Away from their monitors and microphones and controlling voices. He bets she’d be _unstoppable_.

Clint gingerly eases himself up and off the floor. “What’re you making?” he asks, sitting at the counter.

Natasha slides an icepack over, and he gratefully presses it against his swollen eye. “French toast,” she says. “Interested?”

“Definitely.”

He tries to convey _more_ in that word, holding her gaze steadily. And maybe she gets it, because her face relaxes into a genuine smile, and she pushes a plate at him. “Good. Eat up.”

**day twenty-five**

The next few days are little easier, like there’s a hint of a truce between them. He more or less behaves himself, only earning a few shocks from the monitor when he tests the boundaries too far. Natasha still sleeps with him, still touches him, but he finds that it makes him shudder just a little less than it did before. He’s not sure if it’s sympathy or Stockholm syndrome, but he figures it’s better than feeling nauseous at every turn.

In any case, he’s starting to get to know her a little better. Partly out of necessity, partly from his own curiosity. She’s cagey with information, but he manages to pick up things anyway. Like the fact that she likes dogs, but she’s never had one. She’s a fantastic cook, and knows most recipes from memory. She avoids sleeping until she’s practically falling over, and startles herself out of nightmares every few hours. She likes mismatched socks, and doesn’t understand most of his pop culture references, and drinks almost as much coffee as he does. She speaks a ridiculous amount of languages. She knows an _alarming_ amount of ways to kill someone.

She’s jumpy, too. Or maybe alert is the better term. Always on guard, always waiting for something to happen. At first he thought it was just being wary of attack from him, but then he accidentally bumped into her in the hallway, and she put him on the floor by pure reflex. She'd apologized profusely, and helped him up, but he learned quickly after that to announce his presence and keep his distance unless she's controlling the interaction. Like right now.

“Question,” he says, adjusting his grip on her hips. She’s mostly warmed up to him doing that, at least, as long as he keeps his hands in the same place and visible.

“Answer,” she pants back, grinding down onto him. Not really fucking him. More of a lazy kind of hip-rolling that feels good just to feel good, rather than to chase an orgasm.

“Haha,” he says. “Seriously, though.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you ever planning on giving me clothes?”

Natasha grins. “No.”

“Ah.” He slowly slides his thumb over to her clit and circles around it, drawing a gasp. Her hand closes over his wrist but she doesn’t pull him away like she did last time he tried. Small progress. “Any particular reason?”

Natasha shrugs. “You’re pretty.”

“You’re pretty. You get clothes.”

“Mm. That’s because I’m the boss.”

“That so?” He circles her clit again.

“Yes,” she says, fingernails digging into his chest. “And anyway, it would be a sin to cover you up. Would you buy a Picasso just to drape a sheet over it?”

“I’m not really an art person,” Clint says, pushing up into her. “I wouldn’t buy a Picasso at all.”

“Don’t be bratty. Point is, you’re a work of art. And I’m not covering that up.” She covers his hand with hers, pressing it into a spot that makes her gasp with pleasure. “You gonna finish what you started here?”

“I suppose I could,” Clint says, and lets her manipulate his hand how she wants it. Natasha moans as she comes on him, head thrown back, every inch of skin unabashedly on display. Clint doesn’t really agree with her assessment. Between the two of them, _she’s_ definitely the work of art. She’s like a da Vinci or something. He’s like a five year old’s stick figures. Cute, but definitely not worth hanging up in a museum.

She finishes him off with her hand in a way that makes him see stars. Then she tugs him into the bathroom and starts the shower. When she reaches up to pull his hearing aids out, he stops her. “Wait.” Natasha pauses, confusion on her face. “Can they hear us in here?”

“No,” she says. “If we stay quiet.”

“Okay.” He leans forward. “Natasha, I need to know who you’re working for.”

She puts her hands on his chest and pushes him backwards into the wall, _hard_. He winces as his head cracks into it.

“Don’t,” she says, voice dangerously low. “We’re not going down that path, Clint.”

“I can help you,” he says. He gestures to himself. “Me, this—it’s all conditional, right? You only have me as long as they think I’m under your control.”

“You _are_ under my control,” she hisses.

“Yeah. But it’s a show.”

“Is it?” One hand tightens on his chest, fingernails digging in, and her other slips around to grab his cock. Not painfully, but hard enough that he stills underneath her. “Is it _all_ a show?”

“No,” Clint admits. “But enough of it is.” He reaches down and gently takes her wrist. “Please stop.”

Natasha lets go. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she says. “You’re not getting out.”

“ _We_ ,” he says. “We’re getting out. Both of us.”

She stares at him, green eyes wide. “What?”

“You’re not a library book,” he tells her. “Or a weapon, or something to be traded. You’re a person, Natasha. You have the right to decide what you want to do with your own life.”

“I can’t leave,” she says, like it’s the craziest thing she’s ever heard. “I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know how to do anything outside of this.”

Clint shrugs. “You can come with me,” he says. “We could use you on the Avengers. You’re a good fighter.” He rubs one of the fading bruises on his chest. “You could have killed me the other day, but you didn’t. That kind of control is impressive.”

“I don’t want to be in your little boy band,” she snaps.

“Then don’t. We can find something else. But the point is, you can be more than this.” He covers her hand on his chest. “You’re _worth_ more than this.”

Her breath catches, and for a moment, he can see the shine of _something_ in her eyes. Then she blinks and it’s gone, and he wonders if it was there at all.

“You should shower,” she says, taking her hand off him. “I…I need to go.”

“Natasha,” he says, but she’s gone, door slamming behind her. Clint scowls at it.

_Worth a shot, I guess._

Still, he thinks he might have gotten through to her, even just a little bit. He’s not expecting her worldview to change in a day. He just needs to keep at it. Keep convincing her that she’s worth something. If he can make her see that, she might be on his side.

Clint thinks about the virus, and shudders. Hopefully she comes around sooner rather than later. But this is the only plan he has right now. He can’t run, and he can’t get away from her, and there’s no way right now for him to contact the outside world. This is the only thing he can think of. It _has_ to work.

**day twenty-seven**

“I thought you said you didn’t want to do this,” he whispers to her while they’re on the couch. He’s playing with her hair, twisting it into complicated little braids while she leans against him and reads a book. “You said you don’t like this.”

“What’s not to like?” she murmurs back, squirming into him a little more. “This is nice.”

“You know what I meant.”

“I don’t like being mean to you,” she says, turning a page. “So don’t make me.”

“I don’t _make_ you do anything,” he says. “Don’t pull that bullshit.”

Natasha pinches his leg for that, a sharp motion that makes him squeak and pull it away. She snickers. “That was cute.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Stop it. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Mmm.”

“You’ve been here before,” he says. “In my place.”

She nods, hairs tickling his bare skin. “Long time ago.”

“So you know what this is like,” he says.

“That’s why I’m trying to be nice. No one was nice to me.”

He winces. “Why are you letting it happen at all?”

“Because they’ll kill you otherwise.”

“Not if we leave.”

“It’s not happening, Clint.”

“But it could. Tell me who you work for, and help me contact the Avengers.”

She turns another page. “No.”

“Natasha.”

“Stop it, Clint.”

There’s a warning in her voice, but he presses on anyway. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

She drops the book and turns. He gags a little as she shoves her arm into his throat. “Knock it off,” she says quietly, eyes flashing in suppressed anger. “You hear me?”

“Yep,” Clint chokes. “Got it.”

Natasha stays there a moment longer, then flips back over and picks up her book. “You’ll like this part,” she says, and starts reading to him.

After a long moment, he goes back to playing with her hair.

**day twenty-nine**

They’re lounging by the pool when he tries again.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

Natasha barely turns her head. “What?”

“These people you’re afraid of. What would they do if we leave?”

“They would kill us,” she says, like he’s an idiot. Which he is, to be fair.

“They might not.”

Her lips tighten, and after a moment, she shakes her head. “That would be worse.”

“Well, that’s just fucking cryptic.” Clint flips his sunglasses up and looks at her. “I’m serious, Natasha.”

“So am I,” she says, and she gets off her chair. “Don’t stay in the sun too long. You’ll burn.”

“You could give me _clothes_ ,” he calls after her, watching with dismay as she walks back into the house.

“Picasso,” she says, looking back at him with a grin. “I’ll find you some sunblock.”

“I hate sunblock,” Clint grumbles to himself, burying his face back in his arms.

**day thirty**

“Okay,” he says, lifting his head from the pillow. “You were right.”

“Told you,” Natasha says, grinning as she smears aloe down his back. “You have fair skin too. You’re going to be feeling this for a while.”

“I look like a half-cooked burger.”

She laughs. “Good thing you were face down.”

Clint shudders. “Don’t even talk about that.” He’s never sunburned his dick before, and he doesn’t even want to _think_ about what hell that would be.

“I’ll put this in the fridge,” she says, rubbing more aloe on him. “So it’ll be colder for next time.”

“You’re an _angel_ ,” Clint says with feeling.

Her hands pause, and he looks over his shoulder at her. “No,” she says softly, eyes distant. “I’m really not.”

He turns the rest of the way and takes her hand in his, uncaring of the sticky gel covering it. “Hey,” he says. “Natasha.”

She doesn’t meet his eyes.

“None of us are perfect,” he tells her. “We’ve all got a past. What matters is what we do next.”

She snorts. “You read that from a fortune cookie?”

“I learned it from experience,” he says. “I don’t judge people by their worst mistakes.”

“Maybe you should,” she says, pulling away. “I think that’s enough for now. I can do another layer tonight if you want.”

Clint sighs, but he’s learning not to push things with her. “Okay. Thanks, Nat.”

Natasha freezes. “What?”

Clint shrugs. “That okay? Natasha gets to be a mouthful sometimes.”

“It’s three syllables.” But she’s smiling, which is an improvement over a moment ago, and he smiles back at her. “You’re such a child,” she says. “Fine. _Nat_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha presses a kiss to his lips. It’s a soft thing, and he sighs into it, kissing her back. “You’re not the least of them,” she says. “You’re the only one who goes out there without something extra. I’d argue that makes you the best.”
> 
> “You’re just saying that because you like me,” he mutters against her mouth.
> 
> “I do like you,” she says quietly. “Probably more than I should. But I think it’s true, too. You routinely face most people’s worst nightmares with nothing more than a bow and some trick arrows, and you think that’s not enough? Not worthy of attention?” Her hands slide up around his face, cupping it, and she looks at him with a hint of something unreadable in her eyes. “Clint, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met in my life.”

**day thirty-three**

“I have to say,” Natasha says, walking into the kitchen, “you’re taking all this very well,”

Clint is reading on the couch, but at the sound of her voice, he looks up. “What?”

“This,” she says, waving a hand around. “I thought there’d be more…arguing.”

“There _has_ been arguing.”

“Yeah. I thought there would be more.”

He shrugs. “Don’t really see the point.”

She looks confused. “But don’t you want to leave?”

“Yeah.”

“Why aren’t you trying?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No.” Natasha scowls. “That’s not what I mean.”

He turns a page. “Well, let’s look at the obstacles. If I want out, I first have to get past you. I’m an idiot, but I’m not completely stupid. I know who’ll win that fight.”

“Good to hear you know your place.”

He ignores that little comment. “So let’s say by some miracle I get a lucky shot and knock you out. I prefer not being electrocuted to death, so I can’t go out the front door. Which means that I have to break into your room somehow. I can do that, but it’ll take me a hot minute. During which you’ll probably wake up and murder me. And even if you don’t, I have to find a working phone, and then have a battle with my pride about calling my friends to come rescue me from my Rapunzel tower.” Natasha laughs, and he grins at her. “Long story short, it’s a lot of work, and I’m too lazy.”

Most of that is a lie. He’s pretty sure he knows the code to her room, he’s been watching her reflection as she puts it in. And he has absolutely no pride issues about calling his friends for a rescue—he’ll beg on his knees if that’s what it takes to get him out of this mess. Getting past her _would_ be difficult, but he’s willing to wait for the right moment. He still doesn’t want to kill her or anything. He just needs to find a moment where she leaves him alone for longer than a few seconds, with access to the rest of the house. It hasn’t happened yet, but he’s holding out hope. The longer he’s a good boy, the more his chances increase.

Natasha appears to believe him, at least for a moment, and he lets out a little sigh of relief.

“So what _is_ your plan?” she asks, cracking open a bottle of water.

He shrugs. “Win you over with my charming personality and convince you to run away with me.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, and he looks up at her. She has an odd expression on her face, like she’s trying to work out if he’s joking or not. He keeps his own expression light and tries not to give anything away.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” she finally says.

“It’s not about trust. It’s about believing you’ll make the right choice.” He picks his book up again.

“That’s very naive of you,” she says.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I think you’ve got it in you.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Clint is dying to look at her, see her reaction, but he just turns a page without reading a word. Eventually, her footsteps go out of the kitchen, and he allows a small smile on his face.

**day thirty-five**

Clint figures out that his while the anklet monitors for distance or radius or whatever, it does _not_ necessarily monitor for height. Which is why on the thirty-fifth day of his extended stay at Hotel Natasha, he takes a beer, a blanket, and a sandwich, and climbs up the trellis to sit on the roof.

The sun is bright, but the dormer provides enough shade for him to sit in. It’s gorgeous out here, spring edging into summer, just warm enough that he’s not really bothered being without clothes. He leans against the roof and tries to enjoy the view.

Natasha finds him up there easily enough, although she can’t quite hide the relief in her voice when she says, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Having a picnic,” he calls down.

“How did you get up there?”

“Faith, trust, and pixie dust?” She’s less than amused at this, and he points at the trellis. “I climbed.”

“Oh.” She shades her eyes and looks up at him. “Want company?”

He shrugs. “If you want.” _Not like I can stop you._

Natasha disappears back into the house for a moment, then comes back out with her own beer. She climbs the trellis easily and picks her way along the roof to him. “You’re such a sniper,” she says, laying on her back in the sun. “Always picking the high ground.”

“I see better from a distance.” He raises his beer to the view. “Plus, it’s nice up here.”

“Mmm.”

They sit in silence for a long time, and Clint’s surprised to find it more companionable than tense. Natasha doesn’t seem on edge, or even tense, and it’s a change from her usual demeanor. He finds himself studying her, eyes tracing the way her hair curls over her shoulder.

“You’re staring,” she says, eyes fixed on the horizon.

“You’re pretty,” Clint tells her, and she smiles.

Then she rolls her head towards him. “Will you teach me sign language?”

Clint blinks. “What?”

“Sign. You said you knew it, when we first grabbed you. You said sign language, or charades, or interpretive dance.” She laughs a little. “I’m not interested in the last two.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know it.”

“Will you teach me?”

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I like languages. It’s one I don’t know.”

Clint takes a deep breath. _Complacency_. “Sure, I guess.” He switches the beer to his right hand and holds up his left. “This is the alphabet.”

Natasha learns fast, like she does everything else. It only takes him two repetitions before she’s spelling along with him. He has to rearrange her hand for P and Q, but that’s it. On the third round, she gets them all right, and beams at him.

C-L-I-N-T, she spells. N-A-T-A-S-H-A.

Y-E-S, he spells back. “This is my name sign,” he says, putting two fingers to his forehead “Like the shorthand version of me. Faster than finger spelling Clint all the time.”

“H,” she says. “For Hawkeye?”

“Yeah.” He sips his beer. “You can pick one too.”

She thinks about it for a long time, then says, “What’s spider?” Clint shows her, and she shudders. “That’s a creepy sign.”

“Well, spiders are kind of creepy. Why do you want to be a spider?”

Natasha shakes her head. “Show me more.”

Clint sighs, but he recognizes a dismissal when he sees one. So he shows her more signs, and gives her a couple basic grammar rules. Natasha absorbs it all with a quiet confidence, only needing a few repetitions to get things right.

“Thank you,” she eventually says, signing as she says it.

_You’re welcome,_ he signs back.

She looks towards the setting sun. _Hungry?_

_Yes._

_Dinner?_

_Yes._

She starts to get up. “You can stay,” she says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“You sure?” Clint asks, moving to get up. “I can help.”

“No,” she says, nudging him back down. “Stay. I won’t begrudge you a couple extra minutes of freedom. Pretended or otherwise. I know what it’s like.”

“Okay,” Clint says, tipping the beer towards her. “Thanks.”

She smiles at him—a soft thing, friendly—and nods. Then she climbs back down the trellis and disappears inside, and Clint sits back to watch the sun set. Something just changed there, he’s pretty sure. But he has no idea what.

**day thirty-seven**

“You are such a _child_ ,” she says. “They’re just green beans. They’re good for you.”

“I don’t eat vegetables,” he whines. “I live on pizza and coffee. It’s a great life.”

“Tough. You’re eating them. Deal with it.”

“You sound like Kate.” But he sits at the counter and watches her trim the fresh green beans with a massive pair of scissors. “Where did you learn to cook, anyway?”

“I spent a year undercover at a restaurant,” she says. “Managed to pick up a couple things.” She cuts another, then says, “I could teach you, if you want.”

“I’m hopeless at cooking,” Clint says. “Except breakfast food. And ramen.”

“You just need to learn. Come here.”

Clint gets up and walks over. “Seriously,” he says. “Kate told me I could burn water.”

“Shut up. Chop those.” She points at the onions.

He picks up the knife and gets to work. After a moment, Natasha sighs and puts her hands over his. “No. Like this.” She manipulates his hand on the knife, then curls his fingers a specific way over the bulb. “See? Much faster.”

“I’m going to lose a finger.” Clint lets the pressure of her hand push his down, and the knife slices through. It’s a good knife. Nice and sharp.

“You are not. Stop whining.” She lets go after a moment, and Clint finishes the onion under her direct supervision. “Good,” she says, and a little warmth blooms in his chest. “You got it.”

He chops the rest of them, and Natasha hums happily when he hands the cutting board over. She adds them to the beans, tosses in some garlic, and sets the whole thing to simmering. It smells fantastic, even better than pizza, and he leans on the counter to watch them cook. “Okay, maybe this is worth learning.”

“Cooking?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s definitely worth learning,” she says. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you cooking classes for sign language.”

“Okay,” Clint says immediately, and he teaches her the signs for _cook, food,_ and _eat._ She hands him a spatula and tells him how to sauté. It’s companionable, like they were on the roof, and he suddenly finds himself enjoying spending time with her.

A dangerous slope, to be sure, but it’s hard to hold onto anger when she’s smiling like that. Clint always was a sucker for a pretty smile.

**day forty**

“How did you know?” he asks her, ducking a punch.

“Know what?”

“All that stuff you said. About me not feeling adequate. How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” she says, striking out with her foot and catching him in the thigh. “I guessed. And then you flipped out a little, and I knew I was right.”

They’re sparring in the main room because it has the most space. Natasha had even found them a mat to use. He'd figured she’d turn him down when he asked, but she was more than willing to fight with him. Probably because he loses every single time. He’s learning, but every time he picks up another trick, she pulls out a new one.

“You guessed?”

She jumps on his back like a fucking spider-monkey, then swings her legs around him in a twisty move that he could never hope to replicate. It ends up with her sitting on his shoulders, legs wrapped around his head. He reaches up and grabs at her, feeling vaguely suffocated as he stumbles backwards. There’s a low chuckle, and then she twists again, and he ends up on his back, wheezing like a fish out of water. “Fuck,” he says, and Natasha grins, barely even breathing hard.

“You should have leaned forward,” she says, getting to her feet. She shakes her hair out of the ponytail and redoes it.

“Huh?”

“When I got on top of you like that. Quick move forward. I would have fallen. I didn’t have a good grip.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Clint starts to roll over, then groans. “Okay. I’m done. Twenty-six times hitting the floor is my personal limit.”

“Shame,” Natasha says. “I was just getting warmed up.”

“Don’t rub it in.” He forces himself to sit up. “Anyway. You guessed all that stuff? About me.”

Natasha absently rubs at her knuckles. “Yes,” she finally says.

“How?”

“You’re easy to read,” she says. “I know you visit your mother’s grave, because I saw you do it. You visit her grave on her birthday, and the only thing you ever say to her is an apology.”

Clint narrows his eyes. “You _were_ stalking me,” he accuses, and Natasha shrugs.

“Part of the job. I stalked all of you.”

He thinks about this for a second. “All of us?”

“All of you.”

“Oh my god.” He scrambles upright. “Please tell me you know where Tony and Steve go on Fridays when we’re not on a mission.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, “Thor and I have an ongoing bet about whether or not they go off to fuck, and I want to win it.”

Natasha bursts out laughing. “Is that where your mind’s at?”

“It’s been going on for months,” Clint says. “Is that what they do? I don’t need, like, details or anything. I just want to know.”

“No,” she says, still laughing. “They don’t go off to fuck.”

“What do they do?”

“I’m not telling you _now_ ,” she says. “It’s too fun to watch you squirm.”

Clint groans. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Aw, don’t be a baby.” She pats the stool next to her, and he obligingly sits down, letting her tend to his various injuries.

“So you watched me go to my mom’s grave,” he says, getting back to the matter. “And what, you just extrapolated the rest?”

Natasha dabs at a cut on his jaw with antiseptic. “People don’t apologize to the dead without a good reason, Clint. And you never stop at your father’s. Only hers.”

“Because he’s dead to me,” Clint says. “Literally.”

“And I saw the way you train. You put in twice as many hours at the gym as Rogers does.”

“Because I’m not an enhanced super-soldier with fabulous abs.”

“Your abs _are_ fabulous, don’t say they’re not.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shush. Despite all that training, you’re always the first to claim responsibility. Whenever a mission goes wrong, or something happens, you always blame yourself. Even if it wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t have an excuse for that one,” he admits. “Other than things usually _are_ my fault.”

“It’s because you assume you’re the least of them,” she says, setting the antiseptic down. “So everything is your fault, because you’re not the best.”

“I am the least of them,” he says, fighting back his usual feelings at the thought. “I mean I train ridiculously hard, but I’m just one guy. Tony’s got his suit, and Cap has his serum, and Thor’s got the whole Asgardian thing. I’m just…me.”

Natasha presses a kiss to his lips. It’s a soft thing, and he sighs into it, kissing her back. “You’re not the least of them,” she says. “You’re the only one who goes out there without something extra. I’d argue that makes you the best.”

“You’re just saying that because you like me,” he mutters against her mouth.

“I do like you,” she says quietly. “Probably more than I should. But I think it’s true, too. You routinely face most people’s worst nightmares with nothing more than a bow and some trick arrows, and you think that’s not enough? Not worthy of attention?” Her hands slide up around his face, cupping it, and she looks at him with a hint of something unreadable in her eyes. “Clint, you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met in my life.”

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to be convincing _her_ that she’s worth something, not the other way around. He’s a juvenile delinquent runaway with a rap sheet and a very bloody history. Clint knows _exactly_ what he amounts to, and it’s not much.

But her eyes are sincere, and her hands are warm, and for a moment, it’s nice to believe she might be right. So he just nods in her grip and says, “Yeah, okay,” and tries for a smile.

They stay like that for a moment. Then Natasha kisses his forehead and steps back. “I’m going to make lunch,” she says. “You wanna chop vegetables for me?”

“Sure,” he says, and they settle back into their usual routine.

**day forty-two**

Clint wakes up alone, and gets a nasty shock from the monitor when he tries going downstairs. Slightly stunned, he retreats back into his room. There’s a couple books on the bedside table, and a note:

_On assignment. Back tonight._

There’s also a few granola bars, and some bottles of water. Clint scowls at them, but reluctantly cracks one open. It’s been a while since he’s been stuck in here. He’s not looking forward to the boredom. Or the anxiety of being left alone, wondering if she really will come back. Apologies or not, he still vividly remembers being left alone to starve for three days. He’s really not looking forward to a repeat.

But honestly, he doesn’t think she’ll do that. There was _something_ in her voice yesterday, and the way she’d looked at him. Something more than just the faint amusement that he’s come to expect from her.

True to her note, she comes back before the sun sets. She knocks on the door, and crooks her finger at him when he looks up from his book. “Come.”

He follows her downstairs, and she gestures over by the couch. “I brought you a present.”

It’s a portable DVD player. And a stack of movies. Ones he’s been telling her about, or referenced. There’s even a box set of _Dog Cops_ , and Clint lunges at it. “Oh my god,” he says, clutching the box to his chest. “Please tell me what I did to deserve this, so I can do it again.”

“I just thought you’d like it,” she says, and she sounds a little hesitant, like she’s not sure what she’s doing. Like she’s never given a gift before. Maybe she hasn’t.

“I love it,” Clint tells her, still holding _Dog Cops_. “I love it so much.”

He’s _missed_ movies. He and Kate watch movies all the time, and a large percentage of their conversations are them quoting things back and forth at each other. It’s practically their love language.

Clint brandishes _Dog Cops_ at Natasha. “Sit. Let me educate you.”

“Clint,” she says. “I’m tired. I’m going to eat, and shower and go to bed.”

“Fine.” He sets it back down on the stack and examines the rest of them. “Aw, look at all these classics.” He holds up _The Princess Bride_. “You’ll love this. It’s quotable as hell.”

Natasha smiles. “Tomorrow,” she says. “We can watch whatever you want.” She hesitates again, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself. “So…you like it?”

“Uh, did you not see my ridiculous flip over the couch to look at these?” He smiles at her. “Yes, I like it. You brought me _Dog Cops_ , Nat. I don’t think you know what that means to me. You pretty much just proposed.”

He pauses, because the implications there are beyond what he really wants to explore, but she doesn’t seem to read any further into it. “Okay,” is all she says, and there’s a fond expression on her face. “Okay. I’m glad.”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” she says. “Come on. Let’s get some dinner.”

**day forty-three**

“Wait. They’re actual dogs?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not about a K-9 unit?”

Clint grins. “Everyone always thinks that.”

“But they’re actual dogs?”

“Uh-huh.”

Natasha tilts her head up to look at him, red hair brushing across his skin. “How old _are_ you?”

“Hey,” he says, slightly offended. “It’s not just a kids show.”

“It’s talking dogs who solve crimes,” she says. “How is that _not_ a kids show?”

“It’s a show for all generations. Like _The Last Airbender_.” She frowns, and he sighs. “Guess we’re putting that on the list?”

“You’re a child,” she tells him, but she’s smiling, and she puts her head back on his chest.

“Shut up,” he says. “Sergeant Whiskers is talking.”

**day forty-four**

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Training.”

Natasha grabs the knife out of his hand. “By throwing knives at the wall?”

Clint grabs it back. “You won’t let me have a bow, so yeah. Gotta keep my marksmanship up somehow.”

He expects Natasha to protest further, but she just sighs and settles into one of the chairs. “Alright.”

Clint grins. “Hell, yeah.”

He weighs the knife carefully in his hand, then throws it. It flips end over end and sticks perfectly in the wall, slicing neatly through his large and precariously built beer bottle pyramid.

Natasha claps. “Impressive.”

“Aw, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He picks up three knives in his right hand, positions himself, and then claps his left hand over his eyes. _Raise arm, take deep breath, and…let go._

The knives thump in the wall, and Natasha lets out a cheer. “That was _amazing_ ,” she says, smiling at Clint as he opens his eyes. One of the knives is slightly off where he wanted, but it’s close enough. He takes an outlandish bow and smiles at her.

“And you still think you’re inadequate compared to the others?” Natasha shakes her head and gestures at the wall. “Captain America couldn’t have made that shot.”

“I’m the world’s greatest marksman,” he says, going over to retrieve them. “No one could have made that shot but me.”

“Always so modest.”

“And anyway.” He yanks a knife out of the wall. “It’s not really so much that I think I’m inadequate.” He pulls the rest out and steadies the wobbling pyramid. “It’s just that I’m very painfully aware of being human next to them.” His hand rubs over the series of burns on his chest. “And painfully human, at some points.”

Clint walks back over and turns his back to the bottles, tossing a knife over his shoulder. It hits with a solid sound.

“Well,” Natasha says, eyes on the knife as it slowly wobbles. “I still think you’re the best of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nat, my life is a car crash. Like, a really, _really_ messy one.”
> 
> “But you make the best of it,” she says. “You go Avenging, and work for SHIELD, and you mentor Kate. You saved a random dog’s life, then adopted him. You’re willing to put yourself on the line for strangers because it’s the right thing to do. Your life might be a car crash, Clint Barton, but you’re a damn good person in spite of it. Or maybe even because of it.”

**day forty-six**

“Tell me something,” Natasha says while they’re out by the pool. Clint is in the shade this time, having learned his lesson from before. She’s closer to the edge, dangling her arm in the water.

“Tell you what?”

“Why did you and Bobbi break up?”

“I’ll tell you that if you tell me how you know her.”

Natasha reaches for her drink. “It was part of studying you all. I ran into her at a bar. We had a couple drinks. Talked about you a little bit.”

“I feel like that was way more calculated than you’re making it sound.”

“It was calculated. But I liked her, the more I talked to her. We did end up becoming friends for a short time. She’s nice. Good in bed.” Natasha looks at him. “So what happened? Why did you end up divorcing?”

Clint shrugs. “Lots of reasons. But mostly because I’m an idiot.” He taps his fingers on the chair, then suddenly sits up. “Wait. Good in bed?”

“Very good,” Nat agrees. “And you are an idiot. What made this particular case different?”

“Hang on,” Clint says. “You can’t drop a bombshell like that and then just not finish the story. Did you _sleep_ with her?”

Nat shrugs. “Once or twice. It was fun.” Clint gapes at her. She smirks. “You’re picturing it in your head, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he admits, squirming slightly under her gaze.

“I’ll leave the details to your imagination, then,” she says, still smirking. “Tell me why you broke up.”

Clint heaves a sigh and drops it. “I don’t know, Nat. It was a lot of things. She was lying to me, and I was lying to her, and both of us were lying about lying, and rather than talk about it like adults, I pushed her away. Because it was too hard to tell her the truth.”

“What was the truth?”

“I don’t even know, anymore.” He rolls over to face her. “I don’t think I knew then.”

Natasha studies him, but he can’t read her expression through the sunglasses, and after a moment he turns back onto his stomach. “It’s better this way anyway,” he says. “She was too good for me.”

“You really think that?”

Clint lets out a bitter laugh. “Nat, I’m a high school dropout with a rap sheet who was _literally_ raised in a circus. I drink coffee directly from the pot. I watch dogs solve crimes with an unparalleled obsession. I run around with superheroes for my day job, and I manage to get into ridiculous amounts of trouble just by existing.” He waves an arm around. “Case in point. So yeah, she’s too good for me. She definitely married down. I’m surprised she stuck around as long as she did.”

Natasha snaps her hand towards him, and he makes a halfhearted protest at the spray of water she kicks up. “Stop it,” she says. “You’re better than that.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.” She splashes him again.

“Nat, my life is a car crash. Like, a really, _really_ messy one.”

“But you make the best of it,” she says. “You go Avenging, and work for SHIELD, and you mentor Kate. You saved a random dog’s life, then adopted him. You’re willing to put yourself on the line for strangers because it’s the right thing to do. Your life might be a car crash, Clint Barton, but you’re a damn good person in spite of it. Or maybe even because of it.”

He starts to say something, but then stops, because he has no idea _what_ to say. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, _again_. He’s supposed to be convincing her she's a person, not the other way around.

Natasha gets up and kneels by his head. “You said you don’t judge people by their worst mistakes,” she says, fingers under his chin until he lifts his head to look at her. “Maybe you should extend that grace to yourself once in awhile.”

She kisses his forehead and walks into the house, leaving Clint to stare after her.

“Huh,” he says, and lays his head back down again.

**day forty-nine**

The third time Natasha leaves for an assignment, she comes back with a twisted ankle, a broken finger, and a nasty gash in her upper arm. Clint takes one look at her, then forces her to sit at the table so he can stitch it up. Usually it’s him getting the stitches—Kate likes to joke that she’s basically sewed all of him together at this point—but he knows how to do it. Natasha refuses anything for the pain. She just pours herself a glass of whiskey, like this is the Wild West or something, and tells him to get on with it.

“I know you’re tough,” Clint says, threading the sutures through her skin. “You don’t have to prove it.”

“I don’t like drugs,” she says, and that brings up a whole bunch of questions that he knows she isn’t going to answer. So he just quietly agrees and ties off the last stitch. Then he resets the finger and puts it in a crude splint. Not his best work, but functional.

“Let’s get some ice on that ankle,” he says. “Prop it up. Watch a movie or something.”

Natasha lets him help her over to the couch. “No _Dog Cops._ ”

“Rude,” he says, but he grabs a DVD at random and shoves it into the player. “Do you need anything?”

“Just sit with me.”

He does, carefully arranging himself as so not to hurt her more. “So what does the other guy look like?”

“Hmm?”

Clint gestures. “You’re one of the best fighters I know, so if you look like this, I’m guessing whoever you were fighting has it worse.”

“They’re dead,” she says coldly.

“Ah.” Clint tries not to think about that. “Well. Technically I’m right, then.”

They sit in silence for awhile. Clint stares at the screen without really seeing it. It’s a Tarantino film, he thinks, judging by the gratuitous violence, and he thinks that maybe he should have put something nicer on. But Natasha doesn’t appear to be watching it either. She’s playing with the edges of her makeshift splint, her body language tense and wired. Clint wonders if he should say something—break the silence, ease the tension—but she doesn’t appear to _want_ conversation, and he’s learned to stay quiet when she gets like this.

Finally, she clears her throat. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“What wasn’t?”

“This.” She gestures to her arm. “It was after the assignment.”

“Okay.”

“There was a woman. In an alley.” She draws a circular pattern on his arm, fingers barely ghosting over his skin. He shivers under her touch. “And three guys. She was against the wall, and they were—they were—”

Clint gets it, horrible understanding flashing through him. “Oh.”

“I didn’t even know I did it,” she says. “One moment I was walking past, and then suddenly one of them was dead at my feet, and another one was holding a knife, and the girl was running.”

“I’m surprised they got you,” he says, pulling her hand away from the splint before she can fidget with it again.

“I gave them the opening. It was stupid, standing there like that. But I couldn’t think, for a moment. I was looking at the girl, but I wasn’t seeing her.” Natasha takes a shuddering breath. “I saw _me_.”

Clint nods and winds his fingers into hers.

“That’s when he cut me,” she says. “One of them. Pulled me back enough to remember where I was. I killed them, then.”

She sounds lost. Confused. Sad. Clint gently wraps an arm around her. “It was just a flashback,” he says. “It happens.”

“I saw _me_ ,” Natasha says again. “And—and I remembered what it was like, being where she was. I was younger than her, but I remember. I know how it felt to have them on me. I can still feel their hands and their fingers and hear their _fucking_ voices in my ear.”

“Yeah,” Clint says softly. “Trauma will do that.” He thinks about his own nightmares, how often he wakes up with a scream on his lips and the feeling of his father’s hands around his throat.

Natasha turns her head to face him, looking at him with those green eyes. He’s surprised to see tears in them. Or maybe not surprised. “Am I doing that to you?”

He tilts his head. “Doing what?”

“When I’m not here. Do you feel me?”

_Oh_.

Clint can’t think of anything to say in that moment. Part of him wants to tell her no, that he’s fine, and see the sadness in her eyes go away. But that’s not the truth, or at least not all of it. He doesn’t wake up screaming about her hands on him, but he’s sickeningly aware of her presence, and the way he’s been letting her do what she wants. Sure, it’s all part of the plan, and he’s somewhat consenting to it in the name of keeping her happy. Winning her over. And sometimes he likes it—not necessarily the way she makes him feel, but the way she’s started relaxing under his touch, or how she’ll close her eyes as his hands move rather than grabbing at him in a flash of terror. But it’s not consent, not really. Not when his choices are to fight and take it, or lay still and take it. If getting away is not an option, then it’s still rape. No matter how he tries to frame it in his own mind to make it easier.

Except she doesn’t have a choice either, he’s pretty sure, and he doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse knowing that they’re both victims here.

Natasha is staring at him. Waiting for a response.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and she just nods. Turns back over and lays her head on him again. Clint watches the slow rise and fall of her breathing and knows he should be thrilled his plan is working, and that he’s slowly gaining her trust. The Natasha of two weeks ago would have never let herself be this vulnerable with him. But as he watches her quietly wipe at her eyes, all he can feel is sympathy, and he just holds her tighter.

**day fifty-two**

Natasha shuts down for a few days after that. She still stays with him, but there’s a distant edge to her words and her face and he knows better than to push it. So Clint just keeps to his usual routine, and waits for her to process whatever she needs to.

She doesn’t touch him. Not to fuck him, not to sit with him on the couch, not to casually brush his hair as she walks by him. Clint is both relieved and oddly disappointed, and he deliberately does not explore his own feelings on the topic. It’s not a can of worms he’s ready to open.

Except she doesn’t really talk to him, either, and any of his usual jokes or requests met with a few words or a dismissive gesture. And that, more than anything, gets to him after a few days. He’s fine with being untouched, but being _ignored_ is a whole other thing. So finally one day, he gets up before her and stumbles his way through making a couple of bacon and cheese omelets. It’s a hideous mess, but it’s worth it to see the expression on her face as she emerges from her own room.

“What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” he says. “Zero points for presentation, but I think it tastes pretty good. I hope it tastes good. If it doesn’t, just lie to me. My ego is fragile.”

“Uh-huh.” She sits down and pulls the plate closer. “What prompted this?”

It’s a valid question, one that he’s not really sure he’s got an answer for. So he just shrugs and dishes up his own, then sits across from her. It’s ugly, but it’s good, and he thinks Kate would be proud of him.

Natasha watches him as he eats, and after awhile he looks up at her. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

She blinks and takes a bite. “Just trying to figure out what you want.”

“What I want?”

“What angle you’re playing.”

He shrugs, a little stung. “Not everything is a manipulation, Natasha.”

“Most things are.” This is said with bitterness, and she stabs at her omelet with a vigorous intensity.

“Well, maybe I just want you to talk to me again.”

She frowns. “I have been talking to you.”

“No, you haven’t.” He takes another bite. “And you know it.”

Natasha considers for a second, and her face softens. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“I know it wasn’t.” Clint reaches out and covers her hand with hers, and silently cheers inside when she doesn’t pull away. “I don’t hate you, Nat.”

Another frown. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he says, waving his arm around. “I know you’re being forced into this as much as I am. And I don’t hate you for it.”

“You should,” she says, her eyes going cold again.

“Probably,” he agrees. “But I don’t. I couldn’t. I’m not that kind of guy.”

She pokes at her omelet, face unreadable. Clint finishes his, and washes up the dishes. He’s on the last one when her arms wrap around his waist, and she presses her head against his back. “You’re a good person,” she whispers into his skin. “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”

“You can always make it stop,” he whispers back, not sure if she can hear him or not.

Her arms tighten for a moment, and then she says, “I know.”

**day fifty-four**

When Natasha comes back from her next assignment, she brings him back a speaker and the world’s oldest music player. He’s not sure if it’s a thank you for not hating her, or an apology for what she’s doing, but he takes it anyway. “Thanks.”

“It doesn’t have any internet capabilities,” she says. “It’s just for music. Let me know when it needs charging.”

He tries, of course, but she’s right. No internet, no nothing. If he was Tony Stark, he could probably make a phone out of it, but he’s just Clint Barton, and he can barely figure out how to set up his entertainment system without help. So he just takes a beer and the speaker to the roof, turns on some old music, and tries not to think about his legendary disco dance parties with Kate.

Natasha joins him after a few hours, wincing at the music. “The hell is this?”

“Uh.” He picks up the player and squints at the screen. “Bee Gees, I think?”

“Oh.” She hands him another beer. “They’re…interesting.”

The song switches to something else. Eagles, he thinks, humming along. _Standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona_. He sips his beer and shivers a bit as the wind blows. It’s warm out, but the sun is going down and the nights are chillier here.

Natasha gets up and climbs down the trellis, then comes back a few minutes later with a blanket. She hands it to him wordlessly. _For you,_ she signs.

_Thank you,_ he signs back, and wraps it around his shoulders.

She drinks her own beer, eyes on the horizon. Neither of them move, even as the sun fully sets and the stars start to emerge from the sky. The temperature drops a little more, and Natasha shivers.

“Here,” Clint says, opening the blanket. She studies him for a second, then scoots over and slides underneath his arm. “Better?”

“Yes,” she says, tucking her head onto his shoulder. “This is nice.”

“It is,” Clint agrees, leaning his head on hers.

They stay like that for hours, until his eyes are closing with exhaustion, and Natasha’s are too. “We should go to bed,” he murmurs to her.

“Let’s stay,” she murmurs back. “Please?”

“If we fall off and die, I’m blaming you,” he says, but he leans back against the dormer and wraps his arm more securely around her.

He’s half-asleep when she starts singing along. He doesn’t know the song—some Elton John one, it sounds like—but she’s pretty good. He drifts off to the sound of it, too tired to figure out if she’s really crying as she sings, or if he’s just imagining it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It _hurts_ , like a physical pain in his chest, and he presses a hand to it like he can hold it back. Clint _knew_ this wasn’t going to last. He’s not stupid. He _knew_ that Natasha was holding him here for a reason, and that that reason would at some point come to an end, and then they would decide what else to do with him. That was the whole point of being friendly with her. Trying to break into her shell so he could convince her to get out of here with him before that time came. But at some point between cooking and _Dog Cops_ and beers on the roof, being friendly had turned into being _friends_. He lulled himself into complacency instead of her, and now he’s paying the price for it.

**day fifty-six**

Clint wakes up to raised voices.

At first he thinks Natasha is yelling—which would be unusual in itself—but then he realizes the voice is lower-pitched, and angry, and it’s definitely not her.

He throws back the sheet and tiptoes down the stairs, ending up outside her door. Natasha hasn’t slept in her own room in days, but she still occasionally goes in there to work. Clint’s not sure what she’s working on at three in the morning, but he presses his ear to the door anyway. He can’t make it out most of it—something about a schedule, he thinks, and then Natasha’s voice rises sharp and clear.

“—thing you asked me to!” Something shatters on the ground. “Every _goddamn_ thing.”

“Is that so?” the male voice says, getting loud as well. Condescending, and rude, and Clint hates him immediately. “I think he is too much of a distraction for you, little spider. I think you are becoming _attached_.”

“I’m not distracted,” she says. “I’m doing my job, the same way I’ve been doing it for the last year. If they’re telling you otherwise, then they’re lying. I’ve done everything they’ve asked, and I’m keeping him in line.”

“My concern is not with your performance. My concern is for _you_. Are you keeping him in line, or are you falling for him?”

Clint blinks in surprise. Natasha lets out a bitter laugh. “You think so little of me, don’t you?”

“I trained you a specific way, little spider. I don’t remember teaching you to be so soft.”

“He hasn’t tried to escape,” she says. “I don’t need to be brutal. The things you did to me—I won’t do those to him, Ivan. I _won’t_.”

“Ah, my Natasha. So kind-hearted, even after all these years.”

Her voice turns into a quiet plea. “I’ve _already_ hurt him. Why do you want me to do it more? Why does it matter _how_ I do this, as long as the results are the same?”

“Because you know what’s going to happen at the end of this, and I’m having my doubts about if you can do it.”

There’s a silence following that, and Clint can almost see Natasha’s face. He presses his forehead to the door. _Fuck._

“He’s a good fighter,” she finally says. “He could be worth something.”

“We already had this discussion, little spider, and you received your answer.”

“But he—”

“Natasha.” The tone makes it clear there is no room for argument. “Do you hear me?”

A pause, and then, “I hear you.”

“Good girl. Now. Are you able to do what we will ask, or do I need to have someone else take care of it?”

“I can do it,” she says, voice low. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“See that I don’t,” the voice says, and there’s nothing after that.

There’s a long silence, broken only by what might be the sound of her crying.

Clint steps away from the door. He’s breathing too fast, he realizes, and his fists are clenched.

_You know what’s going to happen at the end of this._

It _hurts_ , like a physical pain in his chest, and he presses a hand to it like he can hold it back. Clint _knew_ this wasn’t going to last. He’s not stupid. He _knew_ that Natasha was holding him here for a reason, and that that reason would at some point come to an end, and then they would decide what else to do with him. That was the whole point of being friendly with her. Trying to break into her shell so he could convince her to get out of here with him before that time came. But at some point between cooking and _Dog Cops_ and beers on the roof, being friendly had turned into being _friends_. He lulled himself into complacency instead of her, and now he’s paying the price for it.

_You’re an idiot,_ he tells himself. _An absolute idiot._

The door opens. Clint startles, half expecting her to come out swinging, but Natasha doesn’t seem mad. She just leans her head against the doorframe and looks at him. They stay like that for a long moment, mirror expressions of melancholy.

“You heard,” she finally says. It’s not a question.

He nods.

“I’m sorry,” she says, like that’s supposed to cover everything. Her hand rubs over her chest in the sign for it.

Clint laughs bitterly. “That’s it?”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“How about the truth?” He crosses his arms, feeling energy thrum under his skin. He wants to pace. He wants to punch something. He wants his bow so he can put an arrow right into her lying face. _Why does this hurt so much?_

“I—“ She stops, shakes her head. “The truth is fluid, Clint. Your truth isn’t the same as mine.”

“Wow. I don’t know who fed you that line, but it’s fucking bullshit.” He spins and stalks away from her. He needs to move. He can’t take this standing still.

Natasha quietly follows him. “Clint,” she says.

He looks out the window at the pool, rippling gently in the breeze. “You’re going to kill me,” he says to her reflection.

“They will tell me to, yes.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Whenever the assignment is finished.”

“Comforting.” He sets his jaw and turns to face her. “Gonna tell me it’s coming, or were you just planning on knifing me in my sleep?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” she says, sounding hurt.

“I’m having a little trouble believing that,” he says. “What, so none of this was real?”

“I told you it was a show, Clint,” she says. Her voice is cold, and her eyes are so sad. “I told you that at the beginning. They told me to keep you in line, and I did what I had to do. It’s not my fault if you read more into it than what it is.”

And that—that hurts _worse_ , somehow. Her tone and her posture and her words all twisting the knife a little more. “Jesus,” he says, rubbing his face. “And the rest of it? What you said the other day, when I stitched you up? All our little conversations about choices? Was that all a show too?”

That shuts her up for a moment. “No,” she finally says. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Then what is this?” He gestures between them, wondering if he even has any idea.

“I don’t know,” she says, and it’s barely audible.

“Fuck you,” he says, and he’s not sure if he wants to cry or hit something, or both. He’s a goddamn idiot for ever trusting her, like he was an idiot for trusting Bobbi so long ago, and he hates himself for thinking that she could be changed. “We’re done. We’re done, okay? No more omelets, no more _Dog Cops_ , no more sharing secrets. You stay the fuck out of my way, and I’ll stay the fuck out of yours. I don’t want to see you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” she starts, but he’s walking past her anyway. He goes up to his room and slams the door. Drags a chair in front of it for good measure.

Then he collapses on his bed, shoves his face into a pillow, and screams.

**day fifty-seven**

He spends the next day sitting in his room, fuming at himself and Natasha and the whole goddamn world in general. He misses Lucky, and Kate, and his team, and his own fucking bed, and his shitty apartment. He wants his own hearing aids. He wants to shower in his own bathroom and eat his own food. He wants to go _home_.

But he can’t, because he doesn’t want to be electrocuted to death, and he still hasn’t been able to find a phone or anything that can be used to contact the outside world. Clint is half-contemplating using smoke signals—or starting a fire, there’s an idea—when there’s a knock at the door.

“I have food,” comes Natasha’s quiet voice.

“I don’t fucking care,” he says back.

“I’m just going to set it down. You don’t have to come out.”

It’s ridiculous, because at some point he is going to have to come out. He’s already been over this room a dozen times, he knows there’s no way of getting out of here. He’s got to have access to the rest of the house. Which means at some point interacting with Natasha.

But he doesn’t have to _today_ , so he he just flips off the door and settles back onto the bed to nurse his useless anger.

**day fifty-eight**

“Clint.”

“Fuck off.”

“Would you please just talk to me?”

“Fuck off.”

“Clint!”

“Fuck _off_!”

**day fifty-nine**

“Clint.”

He pulls a pillow over his face and doesn’t answer.

“I just want to talk to you.”

_Yeah, well. I don’t._

Natasha pushes open the door, and it slams into the dresser he’d pulled over to replace the chair. “Seriously?” she asks, shoving at it. “This is the level we’re at?”

“I don’t have anything to write with,” he says through the pillow, “or else I would’ve put a No Girls Allowed sign up.”

She lets out a short laugh, and he feels a smile curve his own face despite his anger. “Fair enough, I guess.”

Clint pulls the pillow off and looks at the door. It’s half-open, and he can see her eyes through the crack. She shoves again, then stops and shakes her head. “Would you open the door?”

“No.”

“ _Clint_.” She’s frustrated, and he finds it inherently satisfying. He flips her off and lays back, looking at the ceiling.

Natasha gives it one more shove, then shakes her head and leaves. Clint puts the pillow back over his face and wonders if it would be better to suffocate himself before she kills him. Just to spite her.

**day sixty**

But no, suffocating would be stupid. If he really wanted to kill himself, he’d swan dive off the balcony. Much more dramatic that way. Much more sure, too.

Not that he wants to kill himself, in any case. But it’s sure as hell better than waiting around for Natasha to do it.

**day sixty-one**

He stayed up all night, and now his sleep schedule is fucked. Not that it was good in the first place, but at least it was semi-regular. Kate would be pissed at him for staying up so late. If she were here, she wouldn’t let him drink any coffee after noon, and bully him into bed early.

Clint wonders if he’s ever thanked her for that. He’s well aware that he’s a walking human disaster—too caustic, too closed off, generally terrible at taking care of himself in any realm. Even the Avengers tend to keep their distance from him.

It was why he and Bobbi had eventually broken up. Clint thought it had been over something stupid—another fight about the risks he takes during battle, and his general lack of self-preservation in the name of getting shit done. They’d argued, and Bobbi had left angry, and that had been the end of Clint’s longest relationship ever. He realizes now that there were fractures between them long before that fight, problems beyond just that one. That fight had just widened them to the point where even he couldn’t miss them.

But Kate’s stuck around, ever since they met, and nothing he’s ever done has ever really shaken her. She takes his mood swings and weird coffee obsession in stride, and watches _Dog Cops_ with him, and makes him do normal human things like go to bed and shower and eat vegetables. She pulls him out of his head when he needs it.

Clint tries to think of the last nice thing he did for her, and he can’t remember. He hadn’t even fixed the pipes like he’d promised. He rubs at his face, surprised to find his cheeks wet. _Goddamnit._

If Kate were here, she’d tell him to open the door. She’d tell him to go downstairs, and play nice with Natasha, and get the job done so he can come back home.

“I don’t want to,” he says to the quiet of the room.

_Too bad,_ he hears. _Get to it. I need you back._

“I don’t want to talk to her. I hate her.”

Imaginary-Kate smiles at him. Soft, a little exasperated, a little endearing. _No, Clint. You don’t._

Clint lets out a shaky little laugh and wraps his arms around his knees. “No,” he agrees softly. “I don’t.”

He knows he _should_ hate her. And part of him wants to, at least a little bit. But he’s not stupid. He knows the reason her betrayal hurts so much is because he doesn’t hate her. He likes her. He likes her a lot. He likes the way she laughs, and her dry sense of humor, and the way she can kick his ass six ways to Sunday without breaking a sweat. He likes her for watching _Dog Cops_ with him, and for how she’ll read him funny parts of her favorite books, and for bringing him blankets on the roof when he’s cold. He likes her because she’s broken and making the best of it, just like he is. And that’s why it hurt so much, hearing the rest of the plan. Because Clint doesn’t hate Natasha, not really. How could he? He's spent sixty-one days trying to get to know her, and he _likes_ her.

_You and your heart,_ Kate murmurs to him, and ain’t that just goddamn truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stops. There’s a long moment of silence between them.
> 
> “So what you’re saying,” Clint finally says, head still reeling a bit with all this information, “is that my plan to win you over with my charming personality was _actually_ a success?”

**day sixty-two**

He goes downstairs the next morning and makes pancakes from a mix in the cabinet. They’re not as good as Kate’s but they’ll do. Natasha emerges from her room when he’s halfway done, quietly sitting herself at the high counter.

“You want syrup?” Clint asks, breaking the tension.

“Sure.”

He slides it over to her and flips the next set.

“I’m sorry,” she says, fingers wrapped around the cold bottle.

“Yeah. I know.”

“I’m going to talk to him again,” she says. “My handler. I think I can convince them to keep you. He said no, but I think if I try again—”

Clint scoffs. “What, so we can be library books together? I seem to remember you telling me I _don’t_ want that.”

“Isn’t it better than being dead?”

“You tell me,” he says. “You’ve been one for a year. How much fun is it?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “I’ve been doing this much longer than that,” she says. “This isn’t my first job, Clint.”

He’d figured that, but it’s still sad to hear. “Yeah, well. I like making my own decisions, thanks. I’m not good at following rules.”

“It’s easier,” Natasha says.

“Than what?”

“Being guilty.”

“I’m sure it is,” Clint says, snapping the griddle off and piling the rest of the pancakes on a plate. “But that’s a shit excuse to make yourself feel better. I’d rather lie awake at night and second-guess my actions then pretend it’s not my fault because someone else was calling the shots. And I sure as hell would rather be dead than under somebody’s thumb like you are.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, just sits there and grips the syrup bottle between her fingers with a white-knuckled intensity. Clint eats his pancakes standing up, then drops the dishes in the sink and goes back upstairs.

**day sixty-six**

There’s another awkward truce between them after that.

Natasha doesn’t bring up working for her handler, and Clint doesn’t bring up when she’s going to kill him. They move around each other in an orbit, each aware of the other’s presence but rarely interacting. She makes him an extra sandwich for lunch, he makes room for her on the couch while watching _Blade Runner_. Little things like that. It’s like two roommates who barely know each other figuring out how to co-exist for the first time, and Clint is suddenly very grateful he didn’t go to college. He’s an awkward guy as is. He could only imagine how he would have done this at eighteen.

He’s watching _Dog Cops_ when she leans over the couch a little distance from him and rests her chin on her hands. “Did Sergeant Whiskers find the baby?”

“You _have_ been paying attention,” Clint says, a little impressed, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “But no. Not yet.”

“Hmm.” She pokes him in the head, the first time she’s touched him in days. “I have an assignment for tomorrow.”

He reluctantly turns to her, pausing the player with his foot. “Can I bring this to the room with me? I read all the books already.”

“I wasn’t planning on locking you in there.”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s an improvement over the last five times.”

She sighs. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

“I make everything difficult,” Clint says. “It’s part of my charm.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He tilts his head. “So what’s different this time?”

She doesn’t answer for a long moment, long enough that he almost repeats the question. Then she softly says, “I don’t know.”

Clint nods and turns back to the screen. “Okay. Well, thanks. I appreciate it.”

Natasha takes a deep breath, but doesn’t say anything else. After a few minutes, she gets up and walks away. Clint stares at the screen, watching Sergeant Whiskers and Lieutenant Rover chase down a bad guy, but he’s not taking in any of it. He’s planning. If she’s going to let him roam while she’s gone, this is his best chance to get in her room. If he can get his hands on a phone, he can call Kate and get the hell out of here.

An hour later, she comes back and sits on the couch opposite him. He spares her a brief glance, but she appears deep in thought, eyes looking right through him. Clint shrugs and goes back to the show.

Ten minutes later, she’s still looking, and he finally glances back over at her. “Do I have something on my face, or…”

Natasha blinks, like she’s coming back awake, and shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says. “I was thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime,” Clint says.

“I know.” She rubs her eyebrows like she’s got a headache. “What you said that one time. About not judging people by their worst mistakes. Did you really mean that?”

“Of course,” he says.

Natasha bites her lip. It’s an uncharacteristic move, concerning him to the point where he pauses the show and turns to her. “What’s going on?”

She rubs her eyebrows again. “I disabled the microphones.”

“What?” Clint sits up straighter. “Hang on. They can’t hear us?”

“I need to tell you some things,” she says, “and I need you to not talk until I’m done.”

This is different. Clint turns a little more, and takes her hand. “I’m listening,” he says.

Natasha stares above him for a second—looking at a camera, he thinks—and then pulls her attention back to him. “I was seven,” she says, “the first time I killed someone.”

Clint bites back every possible response to that and just waits.

“I was seven,” she says again. “Her name was Nadia, and she was my best friend in that place—the place I was raised in. We got paired up to fight. I pinned her. Had her in a headlock. And they made me break her neck.” She takes a deep breath. “She was the first. She wasn’t the last. That place—I call it hell for a reason. They broke us down to the most basic things a human can be, and then rebuilt us in _their_ image. I knew pressure points and stress positions before I was ten. I learned how to hide in a crowd and stalk a person before I was twelve. I had a kill count in the hundreds by the time I turned sixteen.”

She turns her other hand over in her lap, rubbing her fingers together until he takes that one too. “They used everything to keep us broken. They handcuffed us to the beds. They took our names. Made us spy on each other. Gave us to men who—” She cuts off hard there, but he can imagine how that sentence ends.

“I graduated at seventeen. And they started selling me. All my skills and talents to the highest bidder to do whatever they wanted. _Anything_ they wanted. I learned to distance myself. To think of myself like a weapon, like they wanted me to. Because it was the only way I could survive.”

She takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never had anything,” she says. “I don’t even own myself. You talk about choices? I’ve never had any.” Another shaky breath. “I lied, in the beginning. They wouldn’t have killed you. My handler—he wanted to train you, at first. To see if you could be an asset, like me. And I asked if I could be the one to do it.” She closes her eyes. “The things they did to _me_ …I couldn’t watch that happen to you, Clint. I _couldn’t_. So I stepped in. I told them _I_ wanted to break you, and my handler agreed. Said it would be good practice for me.”

Clint thinks about what she’d said after that first fight. The pain in her eyes as she’d looked at him. _You don’t want to be theirs. Trust me._

“But I messed it up. I liked you too much to do what they wanted. The things they expected. And then they decided—“ She shudders, and presses their joined hands to her forehead.

“They decided…”

“That I’m too close.” She looks at him with a devastated expression. “Attachments—they’re not allowed. Not for me. So when I asked them to keep you on, they— _he_ —said no. When this job is over, they will order me to kill you. As punishment for me. For letting myself get too close.”

Clint starts to say something, but Natasha puts her fingers against his lips. She sits like that for a moment, her skin cool against him.

“I don’t want to,” she finally says. “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t know if I _can_. You—you make me think. You’re funny, and you’re smart, and you’re forgiving. You think so little of yourself, but you’ve spent the better part of these months trying to convince me that _I’m_ worth something, that I have _choices_ —”

She breaks off then, tears in her eyes, and Clint gently swipes his thumb over her cheek. “Hey,” he says softly. “You _are_ a person. You _do_ have choices.”

“They’re going to take you away from me,” she says. “The first thing that was ever mine, and you were never really mine at all. They’re going to take you away and I’ll have to go back to what I was.” She grips his hands tightly, almost to the point of pain, and takes a deep breath.

“But…” Clint prompts, feeling something like hope trickle through him.

“But I don’t _want_ to go back to that. I don’t want to be that person again. I want to have choices, and make decisions, and I want to do all of that with _you_.”

She stops. There’s a long moment of silence between them.

“So what you’re saying,” Clint finally says, head still reeling a bit with all this information, “is that my plan to win you over with my charming personality was _actually_ a success?”

Natasha lets out a tearful laugh and shoves at his shoulder. “You’re an idiot,” she says, but she says it fondly, and leans over to kiss his cheek. “Yes, it worked. Happy? I had a life I thought I understood, and you’ve completely ruined it with your stupid jokes and children’s shows.”

Clint grins. “This is great. My plans _never_ work. Kate owes me five bucks.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says again.

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

Nat smiles at him. “I do,” she says, flipping her hair out of her face. “Who would’ve thought?”

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Clint says, “but I’m really just kinda happy you’re seeing things my way.”

They sit in silence for awhile, fingers tangled together, just listening to each other breathe. Natasha rubs her thumbs over the back of his knuckles. “So what now?” she finally murmurs, looking up at him.

“Way I see it,” Clint says, “we got three options.”

“Three?”

“Option one: you kill me, or they kill me, and you go back to being a library book.”

“I said don’t want to do that.”

“Option two: we convince your scary librarian to let us _both_ become library books, and turn into a very badass double assassin team.”

“I don’t think _you_ would do well with that.”

“Option three: we contact the Avengers, get these stupid anklets off, take out the bad guys, stop whatever the freaky virus plan is, and go back to being normal people.”

Natasha taps her finger on the back of his hand. “I don’t know how to do that,” she says.

“Which part?”

“The normal people part.”

“That’s okay,” Clint says, tugging her forward until she settles against his side. “I’m not good at it either. But we can figure it out together.” He kisses her forehead and she relaxes against him, tension leaving her for the first time in days. “So are we gonna bust out of here, then?”

“Not yet,” she says. “I have to do the assignment tomorrow. It’s just an information drop. Nothing difficult. I’ll do it, and then I’ll contact your friends. They’ve been looking for you pretty hard. We had to lay down a lot of false trails to throw them off. They’re very persistent.”

There’s a little swell of warmth in him at that. He knows on _some_ level that his team likes him—they wouldn’t keep him around otherwise—but sometimes it’s hard to tell the little voice in his head that. There was a part of him that wasn’t sure if they’d still be looking for him almost three months later. He makes a lot of trouble.

“And Katie,” he says. “Please. She’ll want to know too.”

“I’ll tell her too. I’ll tell all of them.”

Clint sticks his leg in the air like a dancer, toes pointed, the light catching on the anklet. “What about this shit?” He rattles it. “Is this a handler thing, or an employer thing? They’re two different people, right?”

“Yes. My handler is Ivan. He’s in charge of my assignments. The one who loans me out.”

“The scary librarian.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, Clint. The scary librarian.” She shoves his leg down. “My current employer is Luca Giovanni. Everyone in his organization has one of these. Yours was modified to include the shocks, but it’s the same concept. He likes to know where we are at all times.” She shudders. “In any case, they’re not unbreakable. We just need the right equipment to get them off.”

“Luca Giovanni. That the virus guy?” The name sounds vaguely familiar, like he heard it in a SHIELD briefing or something before, and he figures he probably should have put two and two together before this.

“Yes, he’s the virus guy.”

Clint nods. “Okay. So you contact Avengers, and Kate, and then what?”

“Giovanni is almost ready,” she says. “He’s been manufacturing the virus like crazy. He’s planning on releasing it in a week. We need to stop him before that happens.”

Clint drums his fingers on the couch cushions. “So you tell the team where I am, they come rescue us in spectacular fashion, we de-nanny cam ourselves, and then go wipe out another virus factory?”

“Pretty much.”

“Alright. I’m in.” He pauses for a second. “If anyone jumps at me with a syringe this time, I’m putting an arrow through their eye.”

Natasha laughs. “Fair.”

Clint nudges the player with his foot, Natasha sighs. “Really?”

“Yes, really. We can’t put our grand plan into action until tomorrow anyway, and if I end up dying, I’m gonna be pissed that I didn’t get to see the ending of this.”

“Haven’t you already seen the ending?”

“Does that matter?”

“You’re an idiot,” she says for the third time.

“Yeah. I know.” He rubs his hand over her arm, watching her shiver underneath his touch. Then a thought occurs to him. “Natasha.”

“What?”

“You realize you’re gonna have to give me pants for our grand escape, right? It looks bad enough that you held me here for months, I _really_ don’t want them to learn that I was also naked the entire time.”

“Mmm,” she says.

“Kate will never let me hear the end of it.”

“Mmm.”

“Seriously, she doesn’t need any more ammo for my life. She _still_ brings up the skirt incident.”

“Mmm.”

“ _Natasha_.”

“Fine,” she says. “I suppose I can get you pants.”

“Yay,” Clint says, and turns his attention back to _Dog Cops,_ secure in the knowledge of _finally_ having an escape plan. “This is gonna work, Nat. I can feel it.”

“Let’s hope so,” she murmurs. “Let’s hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint tugs at the restraints. “So you had this asshole drag me out of bed all the way to—” He looks around. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”
> 
> “Newark.”
> 
> “Aw man,” Clint says. “You made me come to New Jersey? That’s just unfair.”

**day sixty-seven**

Except it all goes to shit, of course, because god forbid anything good ever happens to people named Clint Barton.

Anything. _Ever_.

They’d gone to bed together once _Dog Cops_ had finished. No sex, just sleeping. Clint had laid next to her in bed and listened to her breathe and thought _okay_ , _this isn’t so bad._

But since she has an assignment, he wakes up alone, like he always does when she’s out. Nothing unusual there. What _is_ unusual is the guy dressed in all black, standing in his doorway, aiming a gun and a furious expression at him. The room is still relatively dark, sun not yet up, but the light spilling in from the hallway is enough to illuminate the scene.

Clint scrubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up, keeping his hands visible. Not that he has any weapons anyway, but no point in giving the guy anything to be twitchy about. “Morning,” he says, trying for casual and hoping he succeeds.

The guy’s mouth moves. _Get — up, asshole._

“Okay, there is literally zero reason for name calling,” Clint says. “I just woke up, no _way_ I gave you something to be pissed off about yet. I don’t even know who you are.” He yawns. “Actually, considering you’re the one pointing a gun at me, I feel like _I_ should be the angry one in this relationship.”

_Get up._

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint moves the covers back. “Okay. Getting up.” He reaches over to the table for his hearing aids. The guy steps forward, gun raised even _more_ threateningly, and Clint sighs. “I gotta have my ears, man. Can’t follow directions if I can’t hear them, and reading lips sucks.”

No change in expression, but the guy doesn’t shoot him either, so Clint figures that’s the go-ahead. He fits his aids in, wincing at the feedback, and looks up. “I don’t suppose there’s coffee?”

“Get up,” the man growls in a thick Russian accent, so it sounds more like _geet up_. He throws something at Clint, a wad of fabric that lands in his face. “Get dressed.”

Clint unfolds the fabric. “Clothes?” He shakes them out. “Aw, _yeah_. Clothes.” He slides them on, a little thrilled that no matter what the hell is going on, he at least doesn’t have to do it naked. “You know, if someone had told me a couple months ago that I’d be excited about having pants on, I would’ve said they were crazy. Kate’s gonna laugh her ass—“

“Turn around. Hands behind back.”

“Not one for conversation, I guess?” Clint gets up and turns around. Something clicks around his wrists—zip ties, it feels like, _three_ of them, that’s just fucking overkill—and the guy yanks him backwards. “Hey, hey! Easy on the merchandise.”

“Shut up,” the guy growls, jabbing the gun into his back. “Walk.”

Clint stumbles down the stairs, and the guy drags him towards the front door. “Whoa,” Clint says, digging his heels in. Which isn’t really effective on a slick wood floor, but he gives it his best shot. “Hey. Dude. I can’t go out there, I’ve got a little thing on my ankle that gets pissed if I go, like, ten feet past the door. Believe me, I’ve tried and it’s a _bitch_.“

“It will not affect you now,” the guy says, shoving open the front door. He drags Clint down the front steps and towards a waiting car with an open trunk.

“Not the trunk,” Clint says quickly. “Not the trunk, not the trunk, not the—!”

The guy shoves him in the trunk, of course, because fuck his life. The asshole even smirks down at him before slamming it closed, and Clint really wishes he’d taken a second to spit in the guy’s face or something. _Asshole._

They drive for a _long_ time. Clint contemplates kicking a taillight out and calling some attention to himself, but there’s a little part of him that’s curious about what’s going on. Natasha would’ve mentioned if the plan had included this—or at least he hopes she would’ve—and he doesn’t want to run without knowing her status.

So he waits, and listens to the faint strains of shitty dubstep, and tries not to work himself into a panic.

A few hours later, the car pulls to a stop. The doors slam, and the trunk opens, and Clint has about two seconds to see what’s going on before a bag descends over his face. “Rude,” he informs the guy. “Could’ve at least let me get out of the trunk.”

A fist slams into his stomach, and Clint wheezes. “Shut the fuck up,” the guy says, dragging him along.

Clint is taken up a set of cold metal stairs, through a couple doors, and down a hallway. Judging from the echoing of machinery, and the concrete under his feet, he suspects it’s some kind of warehouse. He has a brief moment to hope there’s no glass or needles for his bare feet to encounter, and then he’s roughly shoved into a chair. A knife snaps through the zip ties and he’s re-secured to the chair arms. Something rough wraps around his upper body—rope, judging by the roughness—and forces his back against the cold wood. The same is done to his legs.

“Clint Barton,” another voice says, and the bag is yanked off his head. He winces in the bright light and looks around. He’s in an office of some kind, with industrial lighting, massive, grimy windows overlooking a factory floor, and a desk piled high with paperwork.

Leaning on the desk is a tall man in a suit with a dark beard and a ridiculous mop of hair that kind of flops over in one eye. He’s even got an honest-to-god cane, which he’s rolling between his fingers in an ominous manner. Clint studies him, sure he’s seen the guy somewhere before. “Have we met?”

“Not in person. We spoke by tablet the first day.”

“It’s just that you look really familiar.” Clint looks around. It’s just him, the guy, and the asshole who dragged him out of bed. No sign of Natasha. “I swear we’ve met before.”

“We have not,” the man assures him. “But I know a lot about you, Mr. Barton.”

“Why does everyone say that? Is there a book about my life I don’t know about?”

“I am Luca Giovanni,” the man says.

“Oh,” Clint says. “Okay, yeah, I know who you are.”

“I must say, I was surprised when Natasha asked for you. It was an…unusual move for her.”

“Yeah, I was surprised too, buddy. Where is she?”

“She is on an assignment for me. She knows to come here after.”

Okay, so plan not totally derailed yet. The team can rescue him here just as well as they can rescue him at the house. “So why am _I_ here?”

“I am having some…concerns about the two of you. I was willing to let her have you as a reward for the exemplary work she has done for me, but I think this has evolved into something different between you.” He offers a grim smile. “I find that unacceptable.”

_Well, shit._ “If things have _evolved_ between us,” Clint says, keeping his game face on, “then wouldn’t she have let me go? Why keep playing the game?”

“This is also my question, Mr. Barton. And I intend to ask her.”

Clint tugs at the restraints. “So you had this asshole drag me out of bed all the way to—” He looks around. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“Newark.”

“Aw man,” Clint says. “You made me come to New Jersey? That’s just unfair.”

Giovanni smirks. “You have something against New Jersey?”

“I live in Brooklyn,” Clint says. “I have _everything_ against New Jersey.” He sighs. “Point still stands, though. Why drag my ass here when she’s the one you want to question?”

“Because,” Giovanni says, “if I do not like her answers, then I intend to kick you and that chair out the window, and watch your brain splatter on the factory floor. I do not take bumps to my plan very well, and you have caused many of them. It would be a pleasure to watch you die.”

Clint swallows. “That’s gonna mess up production.”

“We’ll manage.” Giovanni straightens his suit jacket. “So. What is it about you that she finds so fascinating?”

“I’m pretty,” Clint tells him with a straight face.

“Come now. There’s more to you than that.”

“I don’t want to talk about me. Let’s talk about you. Tell me all about your evil virus plan.”

Giovanni barks out a laugh. “Absolutely not. What sort of man do you take me for?”

“Ooh, you don’t want me to answer that honestly,” Clint says. “It won’t be flattering for you.” Memory suddenly comes to him in a flash, and he snaps his fingers. “The Sheriff!”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Sheriff,” Clint says. “Of Rottingham. From _Men in Tights_. That’s who you remind me of.”

Giovanni looks less than thrilled about this information. “Yuri,” he says, thumping his cane on the floor, and the asshole comes back into view. “I grow tired of his voice.”

“You’re the guy who was asking questions,” Clint protests, but that’s all he gets out before Yuri’s fist slams into his jaw. Clint rolls with it, letting the punch rock his head to the side. It hurts anyway. “Rude,” he breathes, picking his head back up.

Yuri scowls and produces a roll of duct tape, picking off a strip and forcing it over Clint’s mouth. “Shut up.”

Left with nothing else to do, Clint settles for drumming his fingers on the chair while they wait for Natasha. And even that only lasts about five minutes before Yuri, that _asshole_ , tapes his damn hands down. Clint seriously considers tapping his feet then, but he doesn’t think it would make enough noise, and he’d really rather not be mummified to the chair.

Natasha shows up an hour or so later, stepping into the room with a quiet grace. She takes one look at Clint, then tilts her head towards Giovanni. “What’s this?”

Yuri wraps his fingers in Clint’s hair and yanks his head backwards. Clint lets out a muffled protest and pulls away, but Natasha is faster. She steps forward, lands a solid punch in Yuri’s nose, and shoves him backwards. “Don’t touch my stuff,” she says sweetly, and puts a possessive hand on the side of Clint’s face.

She checks him out briefly, cataloguing the bruise on his face, and peels the tape from his mouth. “Thank you,” he whispers, and she offers him a quick smile.

“Natasha,” Giovanni says. “Glad you could join us.”

“Happy to be here,” she says, keeping a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and he finds the steady pressure more comforting than he’d like to admit. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I thought I would remind you of your responsibilities,” he says. “And your obligations to me.”

“I remember my responsibilities very clearly,” Natasha says. “And I’ve been fulfilling them, as you’ve directed. Do you have a problem with my work?”

“Not at all. Your work has been exemplary. I’m concerned about distractions. Primarily, him.”

“He _is_ distracting,” Natasha agrees, sliding her hand up to pet his hair. Clint relaxes into her touch. “But not to the point where he interferes with my work. So I still don’t see the problem here.”

Giovanni smiles. It’s not a good look on him. “Then I shall be more direct,” he says. “We’ve been watching your interactions with him. We’re concerned you’re getting too close.”

“How I treat my pets is not your business,” Natasha says, and the coldness in her voice sends a chill down Clint’s spine. “I’m keeping him in line. That’s the only thing you should care about.”

“Are you keeping him in line, or are you falling for him?”

Natasha’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly. “You’ve been talking to Ivan,” she says after a pause.

“He’s concerned. We all are.”

“I feel like I should be flattered,” Clint starts, but she gives him a Look, and he stops.

Givoanni smirks. “You think I have nothing to be concerned about?”

“I know you have nothing to be concerned about. He’s just something entertaining to pass the time, Giovanni. That’s all.”

Christ, Clint hopes she’s faking it, because the tone in her voice is terrifying. It’s the same cold, condescending manner from their first days together, and he’s suddenly afraid that she was lying the whole time, that yesterday never happened, that he’s still under her control and still trapped—

Natasha’s fingers stroke along the side of his neck, right over his pulse. “Courage,” she murmurs to him, quiet enough that he’s the only one who hears it. He lets out a long breath, then nods against her palm.

“If I have nothing to be concerned about,” Giovanni says, “then you’ll have no problem telling me what happened yesterday. There’s about twenty minutes of missing audio, and the two of you appeared to be having such an intense conversation. I confess to being very curious.”

Clint snorts. “What is this, Watergate?”

“Hmm.” Natasha tilts her head, ever the picture of innocence. “You think _I_ cut the audio?”

“It’s a thought.” Giovanni taps the head of his cane in his palm. “But whether you did or not, we know you talked. So enlighten me, Natasha. What did you talk about?”

Natasha looks down at Clint, something unreadable in her eyes. “Choices,” she says softly. “And _Dog Cops.”_ Clint beams up at her, and she smiles back. “Mostly about the past, and what we might have to do to change the future.”

She turns to face Giovanni. “You’re right. I have been getting close. My fault, in the end. I let him get under my skin.”

“I’m very good at that,” Clint says. “Except usually it’s more of _wow-that-guy-is-annoying way_.”

“To be fair,” Nat says, “you’re annoying too.”

“It’s a skill I have to maintain.”

“Quiet,” Giovanni hisses at them, looking back and forth, and Clint has to laugh at his expression.

“Hey,” he says. “Knock-off Italian mob boss. You have no idea what’s happening here, do you?”

“Mr. Barton,” Giovanni says, rolling his eyes. “It is _you_ who has no idea what’s going on here.”

“Yeah, I do,” Clint says. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been working this for a year. You hired her to keep an eye on the Avengers and track us for missions to make sure we didn’t get too close. But then someone fucked up, and we did get close. SHIELD got whiff of what you were doing and sent us to raid your base. We broke into your virus-making factory and took your notes. Your scientists freaked out. One of them picked me as an unwilling guinea pig and dosed me up. You figured that out, and sent Miss Library Book to kidnap me and get your shit back.”

“Miss…Library Book?”

“Don’t ask,” Natasha says, a wry smile on her face.

“Once you got it, you were going to kill me, because you’re a bunch of cartoon villains and I knew too much about your evil plans. Nat convinced you to keep me alive, and you agreed, provided she could keep me controlled.”

“Which has clearly gone well,” he says.

“Don’t blame her,” Clint says. “I’m too pretty to be caged for long.” Natasha laughs. “Anyway. So that’s the plan, isn’t it? She keeps me under control, keeps my teammates running in circles looking for me. That leaves you free to continue with your dastardly plot to release the virus into the public. Because—and stop me if I’m wrong here—you want to infect everybody with it, then market an antidote or a vaccine or whatever and make millions. That about on the money?”

The man looks surprised. “You are more clever than I gave you credit for,” he says. “Perhaps Natasha was right about you.”

“I’m terrifically clever,” Clint says. “But also that’s the plot to the _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ reboot. You’re not very original, are you?”

Natasha bursts out laughing. “Sorry,” she says, waving a hand as the man turns to her with an incredulous look. “Sorry. I’m just—I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” the man says to her, and she mostly pulls herself under control. He turns back to Clint. “Clever, yes. But willful and stubborn.”

“That’s why I like him,” Nat says. “He’s a fighter. He doesn’t follow orders, and he doesn’t like to take advice, and he does stupid things on the regular.”

“I’m a disaster,” Clint agrees.

“Yeah,” Nat says, leaning down to kiss his nose as she pulls the tape off his fingers. “But you’re _my_ disaster.”

Giovanni is still staring between the two of them, unsure of what’s going on. Yuri is back on his feet, hand pressed to his nose, fury in his eyes.

Natasha turns to them. “I quit,” she says. “Effective immediately.”

“You little _bitch_ ,” Giovanni snarls. “I paid for you! You don’t get to quit!”

“But I am,” she says. She pulls a knife from her pocket and cuts Clint free from the chair with quick movements, then hands it to him. “Consider this my two minute notice. I’m tired of being told what to do by fat idiots in suits who think they control my life because they handed Ivan some money. It’s time for me to make my own path.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, brandishing the knife at Giovanni. “You tell ‘em, girl.”

Nat glances at her watch. “In about four minutes,” she says, “the Avengers are going to come bursting through your front door. If you want to be alive when that occurs, I suggest you get on your knees and let my walking disaster over here tie you up.”

“That is not my nickname,” Clint protests, picking up the discarded rope. “I’m Hawkeye.”

“Shush. You’re whatever I say you are.” She turns to Yuri. “You too. On your knees. Hands behind your back.”

Together, they get Giovanni and Yuri tied up, gagged, and tucked away into a corner of the room. Natasha comes to stand next to Clint, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “That was easier than I thought it would be, honestly.”

“I’m proud of you,” Clint says, putting an arm around her. She leans her head against him. “How’s it feel to be a free woman?”

“It’s not over,” she says. “Ivan is still a problem.”

“We’ll take care of it.”

“I don’t think the Avengers will be too thrilled about that.”

“Not them. Us. We. You and me.”

“You really want to come on my revenge mission?”

“Sounds like fun, honestly.” Clint kisses her forehead. “Besides, you’re the first person who’s ever _asked_ for me to be around them. You think I’d let go of an ego boost like that?”

Natasha laughs softly. “I thought you’d want to leave. Go back to your friends.”

“For a bit, yeah. I wanna watch a movie with Kate, and fix the pipes, and sleep in my own bed. Shoot some arrows. Introduce you to Pizza Dog. But then I’m happy to go take out some bad guys. If you’ll have me.”

“I’d love to have you,” she says, and he can hear the relief in her voice. “You’re mine, remember?”

“Oh yeah? I thought that was all a show.”

“Some of it was.” Natasha pokes him in the side. “That part wasn’t. You’re _mine_.”

“I feel like I should disagree with you on principle,” Clint says, poking her back. “But I don’t think I mind it so much.”

Right on cue, there’s a rumbling in the building. “That’ll be the backup,” Clint says, unable to stop the grin from spreading on his face. He turns to check on the two captives, then pulls his arm off Natasha. “Let’s go say hello.”

They get Yuri and Giovanni on their feet, and drag them down the hallway. There’s a significant amount of explosions going on, so they wait until those stop before going down the now-rickety stairs. At the bottom, Clint shoves Giovanni down to his knees and looks around. “Guys?” he yells. “Cap? Iron Man?”

Something catches his peripheral vision, and he has about two seconds to brace before a mass of black hair and purple clothes descends on him with a very loud “ _CLINT_!”

“Hey Katie,” Clint says, just barely managing to keep his feet as she barrels into him. He turns the momentum in a weird kind of spin move, stumbling backwards until he slams into into the wall. “Ow.”

“Clint,” Kate says again, and the pure _relief_ in her voice makes him tear up. “Clint, oh my god, you’re here, you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, holding her tightly, face buried in her hair. “Yeah, Kate. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

Kate lets go long enough to put her hands on his face, thumbing over the bruise on his cheek. She scowls at it. “Who did this?”

“Yuri,” Clint says. “Broken-nose guy. Don’t worry, he got his.” He nods at Natasha. “She took care of it.”

Kate turns, putting herself between Nat and him, nocking and drawing in one smooth motion. Nat holds her hands out, palms visible. “I’m not armed,” she says, and Clint fights back a laugh because _that_ doesn’t mean a goddamn thing with Natasha.

“Hey,” he says, putting his hand on Kate’s arm. “She’s with me. She’s cool.”

“She’s the reason you were gone,” Kate snaps, shaking him off. “I saw the footage from the club. I recognize her.”

“It’s okay,” Clint says, pushing a little harder. “Kate. Stop it. It’s okay.”

Stark lands beside them, gauntlets up and pointed at Natasha. “Hey Hawkeye,” he says, casual as anything. “Long time no see.”

“Hey.” Clint steps around Kate, carefully maneuvering himself between her and Natasha. “Let’s not do anything crazy, okay?”

“Hawkeye,” Cap says, striding up. “You’re alive.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Clint says. “I am, on occasion, good at keeping myself that way.”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Natasha. She’s with me.”

“She’s the one from the club,” Kate says, and Cap raises his fists.

“For fucks sake,” Clint says, a little annoyed. “Would you all relax before someone gets hurt?” He kicks a foot at Giovanni. “This is the virus guy. He’s the one you want. The angry Russian asshole is his muscle. Natasha _was_ working for them, but now she’s not.” He turns to her. “I thought you said you talked to them?”

“I left them a message,” she says. “Not like I could walk into Avengers HQ and introduce myself.”

Cap lowers his fists. “ _You’re_ the one who told us about the factory?”

“Yes,” she says.

Cap and Stark look at each other, then slowly relax. “We appreciate the heads up,” Cap says. “We’ve been chasing this guy for awhile.”

“And Clint,” Stark adds. “It’s good to see you. How you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Clint says. “Unharmed. Very healthy. I’ve even been eating vegetables.” He looks over at Kate, holding her arrow steady. “Kate. _Drop it._ ”

She does, finally, eyes still narrow and angry. “I don’t trust her.”

“I’m aware of that,” Clint says. “But _I_ do, so I need you to trust _me_.”

“Clint,” Natasha says softly. “Maybe we should—”

“Shush,” he tells her. “My turn to be the boss.” He turns back to the rest of them. “She’s with me. It’s not negotiable. You try to take her down, you’re gonna deal with me. Get it?”

“Got it,” Stark says. He reaches down and grabs Giovanni. “Come on, you. We’ve got some questions and a very uncomfortable cell waiting for you.” Cap takes Yuri, leaving Clint alone with Kate and Natasha.

“Where’s Thor?” Clint asks, shifting so Natasha is more behind him. He doesn’t like the look in Kate’s eyes. “Shouldn’t he also be part of this happy reunion?”

“He went to Asgard,” Kate says, focused on Nat. “Something about being needed there. I didn’t really listen. Why are you defending her?”

“She’s the reason I’m here,” Clint says.

“I _know_ that.”

“Not what I meant, Kate. She’s the one who helped me get out of it. She sent this address to you guys. If it wasn’t for her, you’d still be chasing leads and I’d be stuck in Virginia. Or dead.”

Kate scowls. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain it to you. I swear. But not right now. I’m tired. I want a shirt, and some shoes. I want to pet my dog, and sit on my own couch, and drink my shitty coffee and sleep in my own bed. Okay?” He holds a hand out to her, and his voice cracks a little. “Katie, I wanna go _home_.”

Her face softens, and she reaches out, tugging his hand to draw him into a hug. “Okay,” she says softly, her thin arms strong around his waist. “Okay, Clint. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count has gone up one because I cannot count. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha blinks at him, slow and steady, and he smiles at her. “You didn’t break me into it,” he assures her. “I made that choice myself. I don’t know what it means beyond this, or how we’re going to deal with it, or what the future’s gonna look like. There were some things that happened between us that we’ll need to talk about at some point. But I like you, Nat. I like you a lot.”
> 
> There are tears in her eyes, and tears in his, and she folds herself into his arms with a quiet, “I like you too.”

**~~day sixty-eight~~ freedom**

It’s not quite as simple as that, unfortunately. It never is.

As soon as they walk out of the warehouse, SHIELD is there. They grab Natasha and Clint both, handcuffing her, and stick them on a Quinjet. They’re taken to SHIELD headquarters and separated into different rooms as soon as the anklets are cut off.

Clint tells them what they want to hear. He tells them that Giovanni masterminded the whole thing, and that Natasha was there to help keep him in line, and that in the end he managed to flip her loyalties and secure his escape.

He doesn’t tell them about making breakfast, or sign language classes, or beers on the roof. He doesn’t tell them about _Dog Cops_ and conversations about choices. He gives them the bare bones, because they don’t deserve the rest of it, and he’s not sure he could explain it anyway.

After hours of interrogation—and no coffee, the _bastards_ —they let him see Natasha. She’s handcuffed to the table, head down and sleeping, but she wakes up when he steps into the room. “Hey,” he greets her softly, brushing her hair back. “How you doing?”

“I’m okay,” she says. “I should have expected this, I guess.”

“SHIELD doesn’t trust easily,” Clint says. “I tried to convince them you were on my side.”

“I answered their questions,” Natasha says. “The ones I could, anyway.”

“That’s good. That’ll help.” He kisses her forehead. “Did they bring you anything to eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. I’ll go get something.” Clint smoothes his hand up her arm. “Be patient, okay? They’ll come through. They just need time.”

This is an understatement, apparently. It takes SHIELD nearly a week to release Natasha, by which time she’s practically crawling the walls, and he’s right there along with her. He could’ve gone home days earlier—he’s the victim here, after all—but he stays with her. Let them whisper about _compromised_ and _Stockholm syndrome_. He doesn’t care. There’s a look in Natasha’s eyes that eases every time he walks back through the doors of her holding cell, and it’s worth every painful moment just to watch the tension drain from her shoulders at the sight of him.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says to her one night.

“I know,” she says.

“They just don’t understand why.”

“How could they?” She tucks her face into his chest. “I don’t think I do.”

“Me neither,” he whispers into her hair, and he keeps holding her.

SHIELD _finally_ lets Natasha go under the promise of intense surveillance and with both Clint and Kate agreeing to watch her. Kate is less than thrilled about this, but once Clint explains the story—the whole story—to her, she’s a little easier about it. She doesn’t _like_ Natasha, but she tolerates her, and that’s about as much as Clint expects at this point. He knows the protectiveness comes from a good place, and he was gone for a long time. He doesn’t expect anything less from her.

So almost seven days after coming back, Clint walks out of SHIELD headquarters hand in hand with Natasha. Kate is waiting for them at the curb, hand resting on a door of a purple Jeep.

“This new?” Clint asks, patting the metal.

“Yeah. My old car bit the dust.” Kate smiles at him. “Ready to go home?”

“God, yes,” Clint says, and he yanks the door open.

Home is the same as he left it, for the most part. A little cleaner, maybe, and a distinct lack of coffee mugs overflowing the counters, but it’s still home. And best of all—

“Lucky!”

Lucky bounds towards him and knocks him on his ass, licking Clint’s fingers and his face and every part of him that he can reach. Clint buries himself in the soft yellow fur and alternates between laughing and sobbing. “Hey buddy,” he says, voice thick with tears. “I missed you.”

“He’s been sleeping on your bed,” Kate says, brushing past Natasha. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, obligingly rubbing Lucky’s belly. “Totally fine. I don’t care. Nat, this is Lucky.”

“Hi Lucky.” Nat kneels down and gently pets his stomach. Lucky rolls over and licks her face. “Ugh. Dog slobber.”

“It’s an anointment,” Clint says. “You’ve been chosen. He likes you.”

“He likes everybody,” Kate points out.

“He doesn’t like the Tracksuits.”

“Only because they beat him half to death.”

Natasha’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Who are the Tracksuits?”

“Oh man,” Clint says. “You stalked me for a year and never got the full story?”

“They’re why Clint owns the building,” Kate says, setting her bow on the table. She keeps a hand hovering by it. “They haven’t made any trouble, by the way.”

Clint nods. He’d been worried about that. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Tell me,” Nat says, poking him, and Clint smiles.

“Later,” he promises. “It’s a long story and requires more dramatics than I have energy for.” He looks up at Kate. “Right now, I want to get a pizza, and I want to sit on the couch and watch _Dog Cops.”_

“I recorded the whole new season for you,” Kate says, and Clint jumps up to wrap her in a fierce hug. “We can binge watch all of them.”

“This is why you’re my favorite,” he tells her, and she presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Okay. Come on, Nat. More dog adventures for you.”

“Can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” she says, but she lets him pull her up from the floor and onto the couch, laughing as she lands on top of him. They arrange themselves the same way they did at the house, with Natasha curled into his side, head on his chest. Kate watches the exchange with a quiet expression, offering no comment. Lucky watches too, then jumps up on the couch next to them, laying down within arms reach.

Clint queues up the first episode. “Wanna order a pizza?”

“Sure,” Kate says, and she grabs the phone. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, looking around at his apartment. It’s cramped, and a little messy. There’s arrows everywhere, and a few stray pizza boxes, and dog hair covering everything. Holes in the wall and coffee stains on the counter. Absolutely nothing like the pristine white mansion, and he fucking loves it.

_I’m home,_ Clint thinks, and he can’t keep the smile off his face or out of his voice. “Yeah, Kate. The usual is perfect.”

**freedom**

They spend some time breathing.

Clint gets back into shooting with barely a beat missed, although his first couple rounds are off enough that Kate snickers wildly at him, and he threatens to put one through her eye. She tells him to try it if he thinks he can stand the humiliation of missing. Natasha watches from the floor with Lucky in her lap and a fond smile on her face. As soon as he gets his rhythm back, Clint shows off a little, doing tricks and acrobatic moves while shooting until one of them nearly knocks the ceiling fan down. He sticks to regular shots after that.

He fixes the leaky pipes in the bathroom, takes Lucky on his walks, threatens the couple of Tracksuits he sees hanging around the outside of the building. The neighbors greet him with friendly hugs and enthusiastic words and tell him to get his ass back to the grill-outs. Clint grins and promises to bring enough beer for everyone next time.

Natasha and Kate move around each other awkwardly. Kate isn’t outwardly hostile, but she’s not friendly either, despite Clint’s attempts to draw in her into being so. Natasha just stays polite and avoids Kate as much as she can.

“You know,” Clint says to her one night, “she might like you better if you talked to her more.”

“She thinks I’ve twisted your mind,” she says, her back to him. “She thinks I broke you. I can see it in her eyes every time she looks at us.”

Clint thinks about this. “No,” he finally says. “She doesn’t. She’s just worried about me and my history of bad decisions.” He rolls over to face her. “I’m a damn car crash, Nat. I fuck things up all the time. And she’s always the one to pick up the pieces. She doesn’t think you broke me. She’s trying to figure out how deep this thing between us goes, so she can be ready to help me when I inevitably ruin it.”

Nat turns over too. “You think that’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Clint admits. “I didn’t think it would with Bobbi, but then we ended up divorcing anyway. I can’t—I can’t help myself sometimes. Running away from things…it’s in my nature.”

“Mine too,” she says. “If I ever even let myself get close enough.” She reaches out and tangles her fingers into his. They’re quiet for a while, and then she says, “Maybe Kate’s right, though.”

“About?”

“Maybe twisting you was the only way I could have _this_.” Natasha bites her lip. “I kidnapped you, Clint. I was your only human contact for months. Your life was—I basically _told_ you to keep me happy to keep yourself alive.” She pulls her hand away. “How do we know any of this is real?”

Clint laughs. “You think you Stockholm syndrome’d me into this? Is that it?” Natasha doesn’t answer, and he laughs again. “Nat, there’s only room for one idiot in this relationship, and I’ve already claimed that spot.”

“Isn’t it the truth?”

“No, Nat. Of course it’s not.” He takes her hand again. “I don’t like you because I’m afraid of you, or because I’m trying to keep you happy. I like you because you have a good heart. Because you grew up in hell, and came out with compassion and courage anyway. I like you because you brought me _movies,_ and taught me how to cook, and wanted to learn sign language for me. I even like how goddamn bossy you are.”

Natasha blinks at him, slow and steady, and he smiles at her. “You didn’t break me into it,” he assures her. “I made that choice myself. I don’t know what it means beyond this, or how we’re going to deal with it, or what the future’s gonna look like. There were some things that happened between us that we’ll need to talk about at some point. But I like you, Nat. I like you a lot.”

There are tears in her eyes, and tears in his, and she folds herself into his arms with a quiet, “I like you too.”

“Good,” Clint says. “Because otherwise my little speech would have been very awkward.”

She laughs—the startled one, his favorite kind—and tilts her head up to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For all the things I did.”

“I know you are,” he says. “I know.”

**freedom**

Clint wakes up alone.

He puts his aids in—his _own_ aids, which he’d been insanely thrilled about having again—and rolls over. The bed is still warm where she was, and he can hear someone moving around in the kitchen. Two someones. The voices are low, but he can hear the coldness. Clint slowly sits up, then moves to where he can have a better view of the kitchen. He feels a little voyeuristic, but he wants to watch Kate and Nat talk with each other. Wants to see if there's any hope for a relationship at all. 

“So I guess you’re staying,” he hears Kate say.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as he’ll have me, I guess.” Natasha sets a mug down. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“So you like him, then.”

“I like him.” Natasha is quiet for a moment, and then she says, “I think I love him.”

Clint blinks in surprise. _You what?_

Kate’s hand gently trails over the counter. “That so?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” She picks up a knife. “Well, then.” Before Clint can blink, she vaults the counter and pushes Natasha backwards until they hit the wall. “Listen up,” Kate says, pressing the knife to Nat’s throat.

Clint is slightly alarmed, but he stays where is is. He doesn’t need to fight her battles for her, and Nat can take care of herself.

Kate leans in. “I don’t trust you. I don’t particularly like you. But Clint does, and Lucky does, so I’m willing to go with it for now.” She presses the knife down harder. “But if you fuck with him? Or hurt him? Or break his heart? This _exact_ knife is going in your right eye, and then I’ll put an arrow in the left one, and then I will tear out your heart and make you _eat it_.”

_Jesus,_ Clint thinks, but Natasha doesn’t look bothered by this at all. On the contrary, there’s a small smile on her face, and she finally looks at ease. “I hear you,” she says to Kate. “But I’m not going to hurt him. I promise. And I’m not going to let him hurt himself, either.”

Kate looks in her eyes, searching for something. Then after a moment, she steps back and lowers the knife. “Good luck with that,” she says. “I’ve been trying to do that for years.”

“Well,” Nat says, moving away from the wall, “maybe between the two of us we can knock some sense into his thick head.”

Kate studies her for a moment. Then she flips the knife in her hand and drops it into the sink. “It’s a full-time job,” she says. “Trust me.”

“That’s okay,” Nat says. “I intend to stick around.”

“Good,” Kate tells her, and then nothing more is said between them. Clint waits another minute before he comes into view, faking a yawn and pretending he just woke up. Kate’s probably not fooled, but she ruffles his hair and pours him a cup of coffee anyway. Then she pours a second cup, and slides it across the counter to Natasha.

“Thank you,” Nat says, masking her momentary surprise.

“You’re welcome.”

Clint sips his coffee and keeps his mouth shut.

The tension in the apartment drops noticeably after that little incident. Kate and Nat start addressing each other by name. Nat shows her a few hand-to-hand tricks, and Kate lets her shoot a few arrows. It’s not friendship, but it’s acceptance, and Clint figures that’s as good a place to start as any.

He goes back to work for the Avengers, and SHIELD, and after a few missions, Natasha asks to come along.

“I thought you didn’t want to join the boy band?” Clint asks, picking up his quiver.

“I don’t,” she says, “but you keep coming back covered in band-aids, and I don’t like that.”

“I’m only human,” Clint protests, but he hands her a gun anyway.

The others are unsure about her, but they begrudgingly let her come along. It’s a simple mission, practically a milk run, and Natasha sticks to Clint like glue the entire time. They fall into an easy pattern, figuring out their rhythm after a few fistfights, and everybody returns injury-free.

“See?” Nat says once they’re back on the jet. “I can do this.”

Cap walks past them, cowl still on, and nods at her. “Well done,” he says. “You’re a good fighter.”

“Told you,” Clint says, shrugging off his quiver. He _really_ needs to label these, he’d accidentally grabbed an acid arrow instead of a smoke one, and the mission had taken an…interesting turn. “She could probably kick your ass.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Cap looks her up and down. “If you’re going to be with us, you’re going to need a name. For press purposes.”

“Aw yeah,” Clint says, grinning. “Nickname time.” He thinks for a moment. “What about—?”

“No,” she says.

“But I didn’t—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what—”

“ _No_.”

“You’re not fun,” Clint pouts, and she kisses his forehead before turning back to Cap.

“Black Widow,” she tells him. “You can call me Black Widow.”

“Okay,” Cap says. “Black Widow it is.”

**freedom**

A week after that, they’re laying in bed together. The apartment is quiet. Kate and Lucky are out on a walk—a long one judging by the way she’d dressed—and Clint is watching the sunrise slowly seep through the dirty window.

Natasha is awake next to him. Breathing slowly and deeply, the kind of breaths you take when you’re half-asleep, half-awake, and very comfortable. Their legs are tangled together, and his arm is thrown over her waist with careless abandon. He concentrates on the rise and fall of it as she breathes.

“I like this,” he murmurs to her.

“Me too,” she murmurs back.

Clint presses his face into her shoulder. “You told Kate you love me.”

Natasha stiffens for a moment, then nods. “I wondered if you heard that.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

He nods against her. “Okay.”

“I don’t know what it means,” she says. “I’ve never loved anyone before. I don’t exactly know what to do about it.”

“Can mean anything you want,” Clint says. “Can mean you love me like a best friend, or like a romantic friend, or like how I love coffee.”

“I don’t think anyone loves anything as much as you love coffee.”

“Fair.”

There’s a pause, and then she says, “Do you love me?”

Another pause. Clint considers. _Does_ he love her?

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I think so.”

“You _think_ so?”

“I don’t know what what it means either,” he says, a little defensive. “It’s new to me too. I love Kate like a sister, and I loved Bobbi as my wife, but you…” He shrugs. “I don’t know what this is.”

Nat sighs. “We’re a dysfunctional pair, aren’t we?”

“Car crash, remember? Dysfunction is practically my middle name.” He kisses her shoulder. “In any case, we don’t have to figure it out right now. We have time.”

“Okay,” she says softly, and settles back into him.

Clint rubs his hand over her bare shoulder. He’s half-hard. Not from any particular thing, just the usual morning stuff. And with the way his hips are pressed to her, there’s no way she doesn’t feel it. But she doesn’t do anything, like she hasn’t for the last six weeks. Longer, actually. He can’t even remember the last time she fucked him. She’d stopped when they were still in the mansion, right after she’d saved the girl in the alley. He’d been a strange mix of mournful and grateful, and hadn’t brought it up.

Still hasn’t brought it up, actually. They’ve been sleeping together, but they haven’t _slept_ together. Avoiding the topic, like the adults they are. Because that’s totally how problems go away.

Clint sighs. Better late than never, he supposes, and now is as good a time as any.

“Nat,” he says, gently moving his hand to her hip.

She stirs slightly, then puts her hand over his. “Clint.”

“We should talk.”

“About?”

“Sex.”

She sighs and rolls over to face him. “Like a kink discussion, or a trauma discussion?”

“The second one,” he says. “As fun as the first would be.” He tries for a smile. “We need to be adults for a moment.”

Nat bites her lip, then nods. “I suppose you’re right.” She sighs. “What do you want to know?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He brushes her hair out of her face. “I don’t need an in-depth explanation about your past, Nat. I can read between the lines.”

“So what did you mean?”

“We need to talk about _us_. The things that happened between us. I know you didn’t want to do that. I know they made you.”

“Yes.”

“But it happened,” he says.

Natasha closes her eyes. “I know,” she says softly.

“I didn’t want it. And you still did it.”

“I know,” she says again, and her voice breaks. “Christ, Clint. I _know_. You think I don’t feel like shit about it? I saw your face, _every_ time, and I saw _myself_ in your place, and I fucking did it anyway.”

Clint puts his hand on her arm. “I’m not trying to make you feel like shit about it,” he says. “I just need to know that you understand it wasn’t okay. I know you were trying to save my life, and you thought that was the only way. But that doesn’t excuse what happened.”

“I’m not trying to excuse it.” She pulls away from him and sits up, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I’m not excusing it, or wishing it away, or ignoring it. I _know_ it happened, and I _know_ what it did to you, and I know that sorry is never, _ever_ going to adequately cover how I feel about it.” She’s crying now, silent tears dripping down her face. “I _raped_ you,” she says. “You think I can just forget about that?”

Clint thinks about reaching out for her, but stops. He taps his fingers against his own thighs instead, half-regretting opening his big mouth. He’s not cut out for emotions like this. “Look,” he says. “I think—I _know_ —that you have a lot of fucked-up things in your past. Things that happened to you, things you didn’t consent to. That kind of stuff screws with a person, Nat. I’ve seen it.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just holds herself tighter.

“But you recognized that,” he says, pushing on. “You stopped with me, at some point. You saved that girl in the alley. You know what you did, and you’re sorry for it. That’s all I need, Nat. I just wanted to make sure you understood my feelings on it.” He rubs his eyes. “It’s not an easy thing to deal with, for either of us. But I’m not going to hold it against you for the rest of my life, either. I won’t. I know what grudges do to people.”

Natasha nods, “Me too.”

“So I forgive you,” Clint says. “It still wasn’t okay. But as long as you get that…I forgive you.”

Nat swallows hard. “I do.” She rubs at her cheeks. “I get it. And I am sorry, Clint. I’m _so_ sorry. I’ll understand if you don’t want me to—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Don’t. That’s not what I’m saying.” He takes a deep breath. “God. I hate this. I’m not good at…feelings.”

“Me neither,” she says. “I spent most of my life trying not have them.”

Clint swallows. “Look. I like you. Other than Kate and Lucky, you’re one of my closest friends. And if friends is all you want to be from now on, that’s fine.” He gestures to the bed. “I like this stuff. Sleeping with you, and sitting on the couch, and all this. It’s nice. I’m okay with just doing this.” He puts his hand on hers. “And if at some point, you want to do more, I think I might be okay with that too. We’d definitely have to talk about it. And take it really slow. And maybe, uh, have a safe word or something. I don’t know.”

She snickers and wipes her eyes. “A safe word?”

“Like a hard stop, you know? In case one of us freaks out. Probably me.”

“I know what a safe word is, Clint.” She looks amused now, even through the tears, and he flushes red. “I thought this wasn’t a kink discussion?”

“It’s not. Shut up.” He scowls at her. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“I know you are,” she says, turning her hand to thread their fingers together. “I’m just teasing. You’re easy to rile up.”

“Anyway,” he says. “Whatever you want is fine. I’ll be here no matter what you decide. I’m okay either way. I love you. I just want you to be happy and feel safe.”

Natasha looks at him, and there’s so much tenderness in her expression that he finds it hard to breathe for a moment. “You’re a good person,” she whispers. “I don’t deserve you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You got me anyway. I’m not going anywhere.” He lets out a deep breath, feeling drained. “Uh. Do you want a hug or something?”

Natasha lets out a little laugh, and unfolds enough to scoot closer to him. “Sure, Clint.”

He wraps his arms around her. “You told me once to extend some grace to myself,” he murmurs to her. “At the risk of sounding like a self-help novel, I think you should consider doing the same.”

“I’ll think about it.” But she doesn’t sound bitter, at least, and he kisses her hair.

“I also think it might be good for you to talk with someone,” he says.

“What, like a therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t really do therapy.”

“I don’t either.” He shrugs. “But it might be good for you.”

She leans into his chest. “I’ll think about that too.”

Clint gently rubs her arm, then slowly folds his fingers over hers.

“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” she whispers, squeezing his hand.

Clint shrugs. “Most of us don’t,” he murmurs. “That’s why we do it anyway.”

They stay together like that until a thump in the apartment announces the arrival of Kate, and a yellow mass of fur bounds through the door to land squarely on Clint’s lap. “Ow,” he says, detangling himself from Nat to pet Lucky. “You dumb dog, you’re squashing me.”

Lucky licks his face and Clint laughs, turning his head to get away from the slobber. Natasha is watching him, something unreadable in her eyes. “What,” he says, pushing Lucky’s face over to her.

“Nothing,” she says, ducking the swiping tongue. She scratches Lucky’s head and smiles at him. “I’m just…happy.”

“Cool,” Clint says, grinning at her. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The guys she was working for want her back,” Clint says. “Not Giovanni. The original guys. We’re gonna go tell them they can’t have her. You want in?”
> 
> Kate looks between the two of them. “Sure,” she says after a moment. “Sounds fun.”

**freedom**

A week after that, Natasha comes back from the store with a bag of groceries, a pissed-off expression, and a knife wound. Clint sighs, and gets the suture kit with a glass of whiskey. “Fight in the bread aisle or something?”

“Ivan’s men,” she says grimly. “They want me back. They might have followed me here.”

Clint stitches her up. “We’ll deal. Revenge mission time?”

“They’re not going to stop,” she says. “Not until I’m dead or returned. And I’m sure as hell not going back.”

“Well,” he says. “Then we got three options.”

“Three?”

“Option one: we kill you and dramatically display your body, Hannibal Lecter style to scare them off.”

Natasha snorts and sips her whiskey. “Charming.”

“Option two: we fight them off here, and keep an eye out for more. Like I do with the Tracksuits.”

“They’re a little more ruthless than your bros, Clint.”

“Option three: we take the fight to them. You weren’t the only book in the library, right? There’s others who could use a rescue.”

“We have _got_ to find a better analogy,” Natasha tells him, wincing as he ties off the suture. “But yes. There are others. Boys and girls. There’s a whole system of them. Circles within circles. Like a spiderweb.”

“And Ivan is the spider?”

“Ivan controls one part of it. I don’t know who the center spider is.”

“Seems like it’s time to find out, then.”

“Find out what?” Kate asks, coming into the kitchen with her bow in hand. She eyes Natasha’s arm. “What, was there a fight in the bread aisle?”

Natasha laughs. “You two spend way too much time together.”

“The guys she was working for want her back,” Clint says. “Not Giovanni. The original guys. We’re gonna go tell them they can’t have her. You want in?”

Kate looks between the two of them. “Sure,” she says after a moment. “Sounds fun.”

“It’ll be bloody,” Nat warns. “And messy. And dangerous.”

“That’s what I’m titling my autobiography,” Clint tells her, and they all snicker.

“I don’t care,” Kate says. She picks up some stray arrows and looses all three at once, landing them in the target across the room. “It’s been boring around here. I could use a little mayhem.”

“Great,” Clint says. “Let me get my stuff.”

“Right now?” Nat asks, sounding surprised.

“What, you wanna wait for them to knock on the door?”

Almost as if on cue, there’s a knock at the door. Clint stiffens slightly, and Nat grabs a knife from the counter. Kate tosses Clint his bow. He grabs a couple arrows, nocking them and standing ready. “Who is it?”

“Natasha,” comes a crooning voice. “Little spider. We know you’re in there. Come out and we promise not to hurt any of you.”

“You know,” Clint calls through the door, “funnily enough, I just don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Nat says. “They have a nasty history of being fucking _liars_!” She raises her voice at the last part, the first time Clint’s ever heard her yell like that.

“That’s it,” Kate says. “Use your aggressive feelings, girl. Let the hate flow through you.”

Clint snorts out a laugh. “Easy there, Palpatine.” He raises his voice. “Door’s open, dumbasses!”

The door opens. Clint has time to count—five guys total, all wearing stupid leather jackets—before an arrow whizzes past his ear, lodging in the wrist of someone’s raised arm. The guy spasms and drops the gun.

Things go quickly after that. The others burst into his apartment with a vengeance, punching and shooting and swearing. Clint dives behind the counter and looses two arrows, watching with satisfaction as one of them drops to his knees with a scream, hands going up to his eyes. Another one raises his gun, and Clint ducks.

The bullet whizzes overhead with a sound of shattering glass. Clint’s heart sinks as it falls around him and _yep_ , he’s standing in the remains of his coffee pot. He lunges over the counter and tackles the guy, laying him out with a punch. “That—was—my—favorite—coffee—pot,” he growls, emphasizing each word with a punch. “How—dare—you—kill—it!”

“Clint,” Natasha says, catching his fist. “Easy. It’s done.”

Clint sits back, chest heaving, and looks around. All five guys are either laid out or moaning in pain on the floor. Kate is collecting arrows, relatively unharmed except for a scratch on the side of her face. “Everyone okay?”

“Fine,” Kate says, looking at him. “You?”

“Pissed off. In mourning.” He looks over his shoulder. “Kate, they killed my coffee pot.”

“We’ll have a funeral for it.” She pulls a knife out of one guy’s shoulder and hands it to Natasha, handle first. “You’re quick.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Nat says, taking the knife.

Underneath Clint, the guy he was punching starts to stir. Clint wraps a fist in his stupid leather jacket and yanks him up a little. “Who sent you?”

“Ivan did,” Nat says. “Am I right?”

The guy scowls through the blood on his face and says something in Russian that sounds very unkind. “Yes,” he says. “He wants you back, little spider, and we are going to bring you to him.”

“You can’t have her,” Clint says. “She’s a _person_ , you jackass. You want her, you’re gonna have to go through me.”

“Then we will take you too. He’s impressed with you, you know. He has changed his mind about adding you to his collection.”

“You can’t have him,” Nat says, grinding her shoe into a bullet wound on his leg. “He’s mine.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “What she said.”

“Little spider, just come with us, and we can make this easy. No one has to get hurt.”

“Uh.” Clint gestures around. “Do you not see the general carnage here? You lost this round. Like, really, _really_ badly.”

“There are more coming,” he hisses, hand pressed to his face. “We will descend when you least expect it, and you will never see us coming—“

“They’re in a van downstairs,” Kate announces, leaning against the window. “Looks like another five or six of them.”

“Very stealthy,” Clint says to the guy. “Did you want to finish that sentence, or…?”

The guy snarls something at him in Russian. Natasha kicks him in the head. “Don’t be rude,” she chides. “I _like_ him.”

The guy goes limp after that, like he was barely holding on to being awake anyway. Clint gets up and winces at the burn in his knuckles.

“I was impressed with the tackle,” Nat says to him, examining his hand, “but the punching lacked some finesse.”

He shrugs. “I was grieving for the coffee pot.”

“I’ll buy you another one,” she promises.

Kate slings her quiver over her shoulder. “They’re getting out of the van,” she says. “We should probably go take care of that.”

“Probably,” Clint agrees. “I’ll call SHIELD, see if they can’t help with clean-up here.” He grabs his own bow and quiver. “Kate, where’s Lucky?”

“He’s at Simone’s. The kids wanted to play with him.”

Clint nods. “Probably for the best. He would’ve been good backup though.”

“He’s a _dog_ ,” Natasha says. “How can he be backup?”

Kate laughs. “I’ve got some great stories for you,” she says. “But later. We’ve got guests to take care of now.”

Clint nocks an arrow and rolls his shoulder, which is a little stiff from tackling the guy. He looks over at Nat. “So. You still happy?”

Nat grins at him, wiping her bloody hands on her shirt. “Unbelievably so.”

“Come on,” Kate protests, yanking an arrow from one guy’s eye socket with a bloody squelch. “You promised blood and mayhem, not flirting.”

“It’ll be a bit of everything,” Clint tells her, tossing her a couple more arrows.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. No making out in my Jeep.”

“No promises,” Clint says, squeezing her in a brief hug. He looks over at Nat. “Ready, Widow?”

“You _really_ want to come with me?” she asks, flipping the knife in her hand.

Clint smiles. “Always,” he says, reaching into the cabinet and pulling a gun from the flour canister. He slides it across the counter to her. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Because you’re mine,” she says.

“Because I’m yours.”

“You guys suck,” Kate tells them. “If you need me, I’m gonna be shooting arrows at the bad guys.” She brushes past Clint and goes into the hallway. Natasha’s back is to her, so he’s the only one who sees when she turns around and flashes him a subtle thumbs-up.

“Alright,” Clint says, extending a hand to Natasha. “You ready?”

She flips the knife one more time. “Always,” she says, still smiling, and together, they go out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, okay then. 
> 
> Like I said in the beginning, this isn't my ship, but it was a great challenge to write. I had a really good time trying to bring a sympathetic-yet-slightly-warped Natasha to life, since she's usually a side character in my stories (even though I love her). I also wanted to plot out a realistic thing between her and Clint that acknowledged what happened between them while still showing the beginnings of a blossoming relationship. I hope, on some level, that I was able to achieve all these ideas.
> 
> Thank you for coming along on this journey with me! Your comments and kudos are what keep me going, not just for this story, but for all of them. If you like my writing, I've got other stories on my dashboard. It's a good mix of longfics and short ones, mostly Winterhawk stuff, but that's just how I roll. Feel free to check it out. :) 
> 
> Looking forward to seeing you on the next one. 
> 
> <3 Squaddy
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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